Strangers
by volitaire
Summary: PostRent. There is so much more to Santa Fe than tumbleweeds and prairie dogs... REWRITTEN!
1. Animal Farm

**Author's Note:**

_Hm, so I was inspired today to start another chapter story. Basically, Roger becomes mysteriously and extremely self-absorbed (not to mention insecure) and runs away after Mimi's death. This isn't a revolutionary response to grief, but he gives no respectable explanation and leaves everyone in the dark, especially his best friend. Fourteen years later (2002-ish) he decides to come back to pick up where he so bluntly left off. Unbeknownst to Roger, that's going to be kind of difficult to do..._

_Begin scene: Mark is forty and in a library..._

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Roger has always _loved_ libraries.

An unseemly quirk, right?

Not necessarily. You'd have to know him to know why.

And I know Roger...

…I realize I'm mercilessly squeezing the novel I've pulled from a shelf. I lessen my grip and wipe away the finger marks I've sweated onto the plastic cover.

'Anorexia: The Struggle to be Thin'.

I also realize I'm not putting much effort into finding reading material…

Of _course_ I'm not! All the effort is going into silently narrating Roger's traits…

Distracted, I shove the anorexia book into the bulimia shelf, dog-earing every possible page and inevitably causing a domino effect with an entire part of the eating-disorder section. The books slump, ransacked, and settle, defeated, in a linear pile. I sigh and stare at them for a moment, with a look of, "Now who did that?" Then I set my jaw and glance at the hanging dividers chained to the ceiling. What the fuck am I doing in the self-help section?

Roger would never carelessly demolish a neat row of books. Now that I think about it, he should have gotten a job at a library at some point in his life. Surely he cared enough to straighten them. He was a stickler for details too. That we shared. Working here he would've been productive. More productive than a careless heroin junkie, for one thing. More productive than notebooks full of wasted songs and a rugged guitar. More productive than two dead girlfriends and a revoked potential. More productive than a turncoat-

A loudspeaker crackles.

"…Attention library patrons, the time is now 8:15 and we will be closing in fifteen minutes. We recommend you save your work if you are using a computer, and that you make your final selections and bring them to the front for checkout. Thank you."

I blink and shake my thoughts.

Right. The self-help section. I wandered into this aisle.

I unball my fists and smirk to myself. I wonder if they have, 'How to Stop Internal Narration and Senseless Reminiscing?' Or how about, 'How to Skip Your Mid-Life Crisis and Redirect Your Time and Energy Into Coping With Failure?' Or maybe, 'How to Effectively Stop Thinking About Roger Davis, Because He Has Completely Stopped Thinking About You?'

Or maybe just, 'How To Snuff Sarcastic Internal Inconsistency, and Go Two Aisles Over to the Novellas, Where You Wanted To Be In The First Place, and Pick Out A Book and Leave Because The Poor Librarians are Trying to Go Home to Their Families?'

Check.

_I_ was always the one who hated the library. I mean, I respected what the library stood for, but it was always so damn _quiet_. _I_ was quiet. I didn't like my _surroundings_ quiet. That was half the reason I moved to busy, noisy New York. I never liked silent films.

…Willa Cather. James Joyce. Fitzgerald, Twain, books on tape, VHS, CD rack, self help, dingy carpet, cherry wood check-out desk, Mark Cohen standing stupidly in middle of aisle, blocking library traffic. Waves of pity undulating from his temples. Weak knees. Anger.

I poke two fingers under my glasses and stab at my eyes. I need a stronger prescription. I think it's been two years, or whatever, the period in-between optometrist visits is supposed to be. I can't make out the book titles. My eyes are giving out. They really don't care to read anymore. Or maybe I'm just _concentrating_ on blurring my vision.

…I used to come to the library to do homework. But I'd get in and get out. Find the resources and leave. Smile politely at the plump librarian with the beehive hair, steal a bookmark and duck out to the parking lot. Sit in my car and listen to Tracy Chapman. Study with my legs tucked under me, my back to the steering wheel.

…I got into Brown on loud music and cramped spaces.

I absentmindedly spin the short story rack and watch Cather, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Twain morph into one simultaneous tower of book.

"Attention library patrons…"

Yeah, yeah shaddup. I rather than flipping off the ethereal voice, I jam my middle finger into the spinning rack and abruptly stop its rotation. Burroughs. 'Naked Lunch'.

I'll settle.

…Roger used to come to the library to do homework. He'd come in and curl up in the grandfatherly and battered leather chairs that library-goers tend to praise as ancient and comfortable and magic and coercive to an apposite reading experience. He'd scowl at the plump librarian with the beehive hair, steal away to the secretive windowsills at the back of the Scarsdale Public Library. He'd escape his home life. His father. Escape the noise and the risk, allow himself to get drowsy in the enforced quiet. Chuckle to himself because he was a sucker for a good book. Get lost in a story. Bask in the irony that he adored freelance reading and loathed school. Happy that this was the place where no one would ever bother him.

I flip through 'Naked Lunch'. It's gibberish, I can possibly decide why it's been called a classic. Damn the Beat Generation. I think it's about a heroin addict. Hm…

I met Roger our junior year of high school, so we both had a substantial amount of research papers and book reports under our belts. Although, Roger The Library Aficionado skipped school whenever it was convenient. I don't think we ever went to a library together in our teenage years. The only reason I knew Roger loved the library was because he confessed to me.

Roger told me everything.

Roger has _always_, told me, everything.

That's what best friends do.

_Did_.

Collins used to be crazy about 'Naked Lunch'. Maybe it's an esoteric love amongst potheads? He left me his book collection in his will…

I put 'Naked Lunch' back, carefully, in it's rightful home, making sure not to interrupt the Dewey Decimal-centric order. I might have a copy at home. You lose, spin again.

I watch the individually colored-spines of the books mesh to a pillar of gray, forgetting to flip off the rack. I halt the ellipse with my index finger this time. I land on a metal divider. Lose a turn.

I take off my useless glasses and wipe them on my jacket. It's corduroy, so I'm doing more harm than good.

I've always done more harm than good.

"Stay." I pleaded with him.

"Can't."

The coward.

Can't risk another love lost. Can't stick around. Run away hit the road don't commit Roger Davis is full of shit. That sounds like a fucked-up nursery rhyme. Mimi wanted kids. Mimi would've been an excellent mom. I'm sure Collins had Mother Goose in that book collection too. Uncle Mark could've babysat. Would've been a better dad than that bastard Roger Davis is full of shit, doesn't try, has to run.

"Can't."

"Why?"

"She's gone."

"I'm here."

"I know."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

'How To Stop Replaying Life-Altering Moments in Your Head Over And Over And Over And Over Like One of Your Fucking Films. Oh, P.S. You Do That Too. Because You-'

I _don't_ miss Roger.

'Miss Roger.'

Shit.

A game of chance. I spin the rack.

Maybe I should take up gambling?

'Animal Farm'! Never read it. Sounds depressing.

Great.

…I wonder what Roger is doing right now…

I flip through the book.

I laugh. Out loud.

…I wander what Roger has been doing for the past _fourteen_ _years_…

That is a good question. I stare at the barn on the cover of 'Animal Farm' like it contains the mystery of the universe. Isn't 'Animal Farm' a dystopia? Philosophy? I wrinkle my nose. Collins has this too.

I glance at the library clock. Bend backwards and glance out the library doors. The sun has set. I can see my car at the curb. The meter flashing 'Expired', mocking, red, winking at me and bouncing vibrantly off my side mirror. Tattling. Where's the meter cop?

I bend backwards further and try and catch any glimpse of a pink parking ticket tucked under the wiper. So far so good.

What does it matter if I get a ticket?

It's not really my car.

It's…

Roger's.

_Was_ Roger's.

Originally April's.

Maybe April's dad's?

Who cares. He didn't take it with him when he died, she didn't take it with her when she died, and Roger didn't take it with him when he ran.

Basically because he literally ran.

He left on foot.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"Where are you going?" I hand him a sweatshirt off the couch. _Our_ couch. The couch we bought together when we agreed to move in together, the kind of couch you buy when you have a roommate, a _best_-_friend_ kind of couch. The kind of couch you sit on and face each other and talk about things, secrets, tell stories, jokes, epics, confessions- like how Roger loves libraries.

…I think I've left the present. A dangling line of drool wriggles onto 'Animal Farm'. Whoa, I'm really into this reminiscing.

I shake my head but the flashback persists. _In_sists.

I hand him a sweatshirt. Give it to his outstretched fingers that are hastily trying to pack. I help him pack. I blink and rewind my memory.

"Me too."

"Where are you going?"

Slow motion.

Yep. My hand leaves my side, goes to the couch and makes contact with the sweatshirt. My fingers curl around the collar. I lift. It lifts. Roger takes the offering.

What the fuck Mark?! You _helped_ him _pack_!

'How To Accept The Fact That You Accepted The Fact That Roger Needed To Leave, And Thus Handed Him His Sweatshirt.'

Oh, that's right…

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know Mark. Away." He laughs and shakes his head. It's not funny. "I _really_ need to get away." He punches at the suitcase, zipping it, hastily. It bulges.

He swings the hefty thing onto the floor. He glances at his wristwatch. He sticks his hand in his pocket and shuffles around. His hand emerges with a bus ticket. One bus ticket. One way.

"Upstate."

"No I mean, really…_where_?"

"Somewhere."

"How long?"

Fourteen years.

"I don't know yet. You…you and Coll can handle things, right?"

Until he dies, yes Roger, we can handle things magnificently.

"I'll call you, Mark. Okay? Will you stop looking at me like that? I'll be back soon. I can't take this anymore."

Hm, now what do I say? Take your AZT! That's my favorite.

Wash behind your ears!

Bring clean underwear!

Don't let the bedbugs bite!

Don't let your T-Cells vanish!

Eat your broccoli!

Call your best friend like you promise you will!

Your _best_ _friend_.

Come back soon!

"…Come back…soon…"

Fourteen…years…

Keep in touch!

He mumbles. He glances one last time around the apartment and scratches his head. Sets April's dad's/April's/his/my car keys on the umbrella stand. The umbrella stand we bought because we thought it'd be funny to have an umbrella stand, funny because neither of us gave a fuck if we got wet, that is, of course, until someone's immune system gave a fuck and we bought an umbrella.

"Bye Mark."

"Bye."

Last words. Good job Mark. Very original.

I scold myself. How did I know they were _last_?

Roger forgets to close the door.

I listen to his suitcase bang all the way down the stairs.

I smile.

I listen to Roger's footsteps come all the way back up the stairs.

I'm already at the ready, guitar case set neatly in the doorframe.

"Thanks." He grunts. "Almost forgot."

You're welcome. Welcome that I can predict you.

'How To Not Sound Like A Stalker When You're Thinking About Your Best Friend.'

I plaster myself to the loft's window. Watch him disappear around Eleventh street, big suitcase banging along behind embarrassingly, guitar case bouncing off his leg.

He rounds the corner. Then he is gone.

-End memory.-

I switch reels in my brain.

-My 30th birthday party, four years later. After _four_ years I am almost certain Roger isn't going to come back around the corner. _Almost_.

It is also an 'almost' birthday party. Some friends from work. A withered Collins. Cindy. Benny drives up from the Hamptons. Joanne.

Maureen is working. Fancy that. Working. She teaches. Drama. Four years of Joanne's insisting and four years of college, determination, and charisma Maureen is a certified teacher. It's a Wednesday, a school day. She'll visit me when the bell rings.

Collins smiles, giggles, wheezes, straps a ridiculously pointy birthday hat to my head. He carefully pulls my glasses from my face and replaces them with lens-less plastic in the shape of the number '30.' Wheezes. Lights fizzing birthday candle. Wheezes. Begins 'Happy Birthday'. Blind, I watch the candle sizzle. I think of Mimi. Mimi reminds me of Roger. I think about Roger. Everyone joins in singing. (Except Collins. He wheezes.) My grin fades. The song ends. Everyone claps. The candle is close to going out. "Quick!" cries Collins. I rear back and inhale.

I blow out the candle with incredible force and wish for Roger to come home.

-End memory.-

I switch reels, quickly, because the library is close to locking me in and I don't feel like reminiscing anywhere else but at this library.

-Jump forward five years. Collins is long gone. So is the loft. So is Benny. He moved to San Francisco. He promised to write (and he does) and he conned someone into selling me a place in Chelsea. A flat. I moved away and moved in. Alone, with nothing to do but sit around and edit films and get a job-editing films in Greenwich. The IFC Center. _Independent_ films. I didn't _entirely_ sell out. That was okay. I had to convince myself that was okay. I bought a dog, for company. A German Shepard. I thought it was a girl. Named it Mimi. Paid for its shots. Learned it had a penis. Named it Roger. Hated myself for it. Asked it questions like, "Where is your namesake?" It never answered me. Changed its name to Collins. It got hit by a car. Bought a goldfish. Three years passed. The goldfish died. It never had a name.

Two years pass.

I'm forty.

Forty.

Wow.

Bohemia died somewhere along with Mimi, Collins, and my youth. I still feel artistic though. But I also feel the early stages of arthritis. I need new glasses. I'll buy designer frames, I think, since money isn't so hard to come by anymore. I miss Bohemia. I miss Benny. Sometimes I have urges to leap on a table and sing. To backtrack a little and do something more amazing and subversive. But mostly I have urges to go to the library and check out a book so I can sit home and read it. I think I'm older than I should be…

-End memory.-

It's September. Roger's birthday would've came and went. He's forty too. Happy Birthday Roger. Wherever you are.

"Attention library patrons…"

I squint one eye at 'Animal Farm' and decide that even if Collins has this in his possession that I'm going to get it anyway. Did I come to the library for nothing? I tend to do that a lot lately. Do things for no evident purpose.

An unseemly quirk, right?

Not necessarily.

You could always ask Roger. _He_ knows that I'm not always 100 sure of myself. Maybe that was my demise.

"Animal Farm." Someone says from behind me.

'How To Break Your Self Pity With An Interruption From A Fellow Library Patron.'

I look up, annoyed that this other person can read, and is reading my selected title.

I smile with the corner of my mouth and shake the book slightly. "Yep." I turn around and roll my eyes, prepared to walk away quickly. Whoever was reading over my shoulder is now breathing down my neck.

"You've been staring at it for a pretty long time-"

What the fuck, go away! "Mm-hm. Deciding whether or not I should get it."

"Ooh, you should. It's a classic."

"I've…heard. Uh, thanks for making up my mind. Um, they're closing now, so, ha, better go check this out then…"

"No problem. You'd better hurry though. The meter cop's patrolling. She's on Bleeker, but she's coming up this way pretty quickly."

My heart drops and I fumble for my library card in my chest pocket. I suppose the last thing I need right now is a ticket. I'll probably end up paying late fees for this book, better shirk the fine.

"Oh! Thanks..." I wave gratefully and hastily over my shoulder and hustle to the checkout. I smile at the librarian and grab a bookmark. The fellow patron brushes past, hopping the velvet ropes and ignoring the librarian.

…How does he know that's my car………….?

"Again, no problem." He mumbles.

My eyebrow goes up before the corners of my mouth do.

Roger shrugs, pushing through the revolving entrance doors.

The little red light on the meter winks at me, bouncing off the passenger mirror. It blinks after him, tattling.

Roger has always loved libraries.


	2. Nostromo

"Sir? Excuse me- sir? _Sir_!"

If looks could kill, they probably would.

Therefore, I shot the librarian in the face.

"Listen, I'm sorry to interrupt your daydreaming, but we're closed now sir. Thank you for coming, but could you kindly leave? Thank you."

I am shooed at frantically.

"No, thank _you_…I'm going now." I wander dreamily towards the exit. Suddenly I snap back to reality. "Of _course_ I'm going now!" I load another countenance-bullet into the librarian, causing her to jump backwards into a cartful of books. "Holy fuck, did you just _see_ that?!"

Extremely paranoid, the trembling woman puts a hand to her fluttering chest and sputters, "W-what? Did I see what?"

"_ROGER_!" I howl at her, as if the name is supposed to have tremendous significance to this disturbed librarian. "_Roger_! _Roger_! Did you see Roger? _I_ saw Roger!"

My chest heaves wildly and I stand stupidly with my arm unfolded to the door. There is a beat, dead silent, and then my face twists and I launch myself from the desk and through the exit, yelping, "Why am I still standing here?! That was _Roger_! That _was_ Roger! Roger!"

I throw myself onto the sidewalk, nearly snapping my neck in search of him. I startle a couple holding hands, losing my footing and wheeling into their path. They grumble at me and swerve, and I yell, "Sorry! Roger!"

They give me a dirty look. I return it.

No one else is on the sidewalk.

"Well what the fuck?!" I yowl at the empty sky, stamping my foot. I hold my glasses up to the streetlight, inspect them, abhor them, and replace them, conquered.

That wasn't _Roger_…

That _couldn't_ have been Roger.

Truly, my eyes were going.

But my hearing was not. Nor my instinct.

I've known Roger _too_ well and _too_ long, and that indeed _was_ Roger. That, or I've just had the best hallucination known to man.

"Sir? You left your book…" The timid voice of the librarian practically knocks me into the road.

"Oh my God."

"I didn't mean to scare you. Here you go." She wiggles the paperback near my face, though at arm's length like it's bait and I'm some dangerous lion.

I snatch the book from her and whirl around one last time.

"You saw him, didn't you?"

"Saw who?" She responds as if she deals with crazies on a daily basis. Which she probably does. Next to schoolchildren and college students, the clinically insane are the majority of library inhabitants.

I sigh impatiently and try to remember my manners (and to convince her that I am not crazy.) "A man. Did you see another man speaking with me when I was checking out?"

"Yessir, I did."

"Good!" I squeak. I lower my voice. "Okay. Okay, and what did he look like?"

"You didn't see him?"

"No-YES! _Yes_, I saw him. It's just that…well, I _haven't_ seen him in…_years_!" I chuckle and grow increasingly irritated that this woman cannot read my mind. "…Did you see which direction he went? No- have you seen him in here before?"

"Yes."

"Yes what!?" I peep excitedly. "I asked two questions. Yes, as in yes you saw which way he went, or yes- you've seen him previously?"

"Both. He went thataway-" She points to my left, around the building. "And he's a frequent visitor."

"_Frequent_!" I am so boggled I'm compelled to go to the bathroom on the spot. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. "Frequent?! Really?! How frequent? What is frequent?!"

"Oh…" She ponders. "Maybe twice a month. Nice man. Likes murder mysteries."

"TWICE A MONTH?!"

"Mm-hm."

Flabbergasted, and without as much as a 'thank you' I bolt around the corner, raring for hot pursuit.

But again, there is no one.

I scan the rooftops.

Spiderman?

I peer into the dark windows of the nearest parked cars.

Where the _hell_ did he go?

_Again_?!

"Roger!" I cry, but I have the feeling he is not going to answer me.

He's fucking with me.

He's bound to be out of earshot by now, but he's not planning to hear me any time soon.

Twice a month? Hell, _I_ go to the library twice a month!

Suddenly I heed Roger's warning and jog back to the car before the meter police can snag me. The librarian is fumbling to lock the doors.

"Twice a month for how long?" It is my turn to scare her.

She catches her breath and thinks. "A long time…"

"Long?"

"Two years?"

"TWO YEARS?!" I've lost control of my volume, I've decided. I cough. "Two? Whoo… You're telling the truth, right?"

"Yes." She fluffs her curls, annoyed.

"…And for…" I gasp. "Two...years…has he always gone- that way?"

"As far as I've noticed."

"Do you know where he lives?" I blurt.

She scowls at me skeptically.

"Sorry. Dumb question. But do you?"

"No…"

Temporarily I am disheartened. Then I perk up.

"Does he have a library card?"

"…Sir?"

"A card! He must, right?"

"Well, yes-"

"Oh my God. Can we look him up?"

"Pardon?"

"With the system! Could we? Can we go back inside? I won't bother you anymore, promise. Just- his address. You know that through the computer…through his library card…"

"Sir, that's a violation against a library patron. I can't just…give out personal information!"

I frown. "I know, I know…you might've been dimwitted or something." I've already forgotten my manners. "There's no way?"

"How 'bout a phonebook?"

"No!" I growl, as if she really is dimwitted. "You don't think I've _tried_ that? He doesn't live here!"

"…He could live with someone else?"

"Eureka!" I roll my eyes and step away. I've gotta get home. I've gotta call the girls. Benny. Anyone! I prepare to get into the car, but call over the roof, "Listen, sorry. And thanks for the help-"

She nods, slightly baffled with me still. She waves awkwardly and I nod and slide into the car. She shakes her head and walks away.

"Hey! Wait." I lean out the passenger window. She stops nervously. "Hey! If you see him again- tell him- could you tell him that- that Mark is looking for him?"

"Mark?"

"Yeah."

"All right."

"Thank you!" I gasp, and start the car.

Hurriedly she waddles away.

Sullen, I prepare to rocket home. I check over my shoulder for oncoming traffic and glance forward at the car ahead.

A square of paper beneath the wiper catches my eye.

"Shit!" I curse and punch the wheel. I duck out and grab it, resentfully yanking my arm back through the window.

It's pink, it's paper, and it's got words on it, but it is no parking ticket.

"**THE WELL HUNGARIANS- REUNION SHOW! ONE NIGHT ONLY! CBGB'S, 10 p.m. Tuesday, September 12th!"**

I ogle at the wretched thing, desperately trying to remember a time when I've been more confused- or..._angry_, for that matter.

What. The. Hell?


	3. Much Ado About Nothing

At 8:45 on a Tuesday night, I don't expect Maureen and Joanne to be asleep.

But I surely don't expect them to be pacing the sidewalk in front of my apartment.

Their faces light up from a block away when they hear my beater of a car clunking its way up the street. I grind into a parking space and almost snap the key in half, entirely frenetic.

"What are you guys doing here?!" I call through the closed car door. Joanne bounces over to the window and pounds on it with her palms, like it's an unexplained force field preventing us from conversation.

In my anxious frenzy I open the car door onto her hip, sending her teetering into Maureen, who doesn't seem to mind. She catches her drastically, as if Joanne had just fainted.

"Hi Mark!" Joanne pipes, practically laying on Maureen.

At the same time I sputter, "Oh my God look!" and wave the flyer madly.

Also at the same time, Maureen promptly drops Joanne and flaps her right hand daintily in my face, displaying an ostentatious (but stunningly gorgeous) rock of an engagement ring. I step back, convinced that the sheen of the diamond has just blinded me further than I was in the first place, and a second beacon of luster finishes me off as Joanne pulls herself from the sidewalk and grabs her counterpart.

"Mark? This is my fiancé, Maureen." Joanne introduces, beaming brighter than the gem on her finger. "Maybe you've met her…?" Maureen bows and takes special care to wiggle her hand.

"Roger!" Is all I can yell.

"…Roger?" Maureen repeats robotically, and then looks at Joanne and mouths, "Roger?"

An awful silence settles. It settles _every_ time I bring up Roger. It's pity silence.

Maureen and Joanne don't know what to say. They feel bad. It's an, "I'm sorry for your loss." kind of silence. I've just completely ruined their exhilaration and put them in an uncomfortable state of affairs. Oh no. Mark's been thinking about Roger. Now what do we say?

They think this is hard for me.

…It is hard.

…But more than a decade of being _abandoned_ by your best friend, well, after a while it's easier to assume he's not your best friend anymore.

It's the transition that's hard. The acceptance. The moving on…?

Everyone else thought Roger was dead.

Everyone else was sick, and everyone else died, so what did it matter?

He had AIDS, he was fatally heartbroken. He'd died too.

And so that was the mindset of everyone in the group as they grit their teeth and went on with their lives.

But not me.

I held fast to the belief that he was alive. Something you see in movies- if I didn't lose hope he'd come back. That enormous sum of loyalty divided between best friends.

This _was_ hard for me. Because it was impossible to move on. You can't no someone _that_ well and for _that_ long and have gone through _so_ much, and then just allow him to slip to the back of your mind. I refused to let him until eventually betrayal allowed me to feel apathy. The fucking traitor. The _coward_. That was a recurring jab; because he didn't have enough courage to trust my friendship, to pull him out of grief, _again_. I just shit-talked him on a daily basis and calmed my unrest. It became part of my schedule. Wake up, curse Roger's name, go to work, try not to think about Roger, go to bed.

Joanne shrugs. Maureen blinks and then her confusion vanishes and she squeals "Mark! We're engaged!"

Extremely overwhelmed, I stand in transit for a moment, and then ultimately decide that whatever needs to be praised and announced between us will be best said inside my apartment.

I make a gurgling noise, unable to find the right tone of voice for the situation, and then cough, "Um, come on, let's go in…"

"Yay!" Gushes Maureen, sounding positively tweenage. Joanne returns the giddiness and nuzzles into Maureen's shoulder.

The back of my neck grows hot, deflecting the girlish giggles and flighty whispers erupting from the bashful couple behind me. I fumble to get my keys in the lock, convinced that if I didn't have Roger to think about, I'd have an insane amount of jealousy right about now.

We all shove through the doorway and into my kitchen, which is no loft. It sparkles, because I don't have much else to do these days but buy bleach and utilize it.

I have a black and white checkerboard floor, a sturdy maple table with spacious seating for four, a magazine rack, a spice rack, a window with red wool curtains, a fridge, a microwave, a pathetic little stove and a throw rug. It is not possible to own a more ordinary kitchen.

"You guys hungry?"

I walk to the sink and rinse out an old brown coffee mug, which, at some point in its life, touched the lips of everyone in the loft. It is now badly chipped, but somehow coffee always seems to taste better in this one. I make to the fridge for some soy milk or limeade or a leftover shake from McDonald's, but Joanne scolds, "No, no we're fine, come over here and sit down." And they take two places at my table.

I change my course and go back to the sink and settle for tap water.

"I'll stand." I say, and casually lean on the counter.

I swish the water around in the cup and fiddle with a corner of the flyer.

"Mark Mark Mark!" Cries Maureen, rapid fire. She pushes away from the table clumsily and throws herself at me, hands on my chest, eyes wide. "Mark!" She leans to my ear and whispers, "We're _engaged_."

"So I've heard." I mumble, and Joanne stands slightly and says, "No Maur! Say it out _loud_!"

"We're engaged!" Maureen warbles, crow's feet crinkling with excitement. She dances over to her lover, long skirt swishing over my spotless floor, and she grabs Joanne's hands and spins her.

I watch them twirl around like fools for a second, internally reprimanding myself for being invidious and for not getting as excited. I lick my teeth and take a sip of water, pushing off the counter and moseying to a chair.

I clink the mug down nosily and clear my throat.

Over her shoulder and still spinning Joanne calls, seriously, "Mark you don't look happy for us."

"Oh, I am." I assure, and grin, only quick enough for Joanne to see before she makes another rotation. "Okay, actually yeah, you guys, come sit down and talk to me."

Obedient, Maureen flings Joanne to the table and follows.

"So when did this happen?!" I set my elbows on the table and my chin in my palms, trying my best to resemble an enthused teenage girl.

"This morning!" Joanne blurts, not at all catching my mockery. I really am happy for them, I just have _other_ things on my mind and I'm frustrated that they have nearly-as-important news. "She proposed to me!"

I almost choke on spit. "Maureen? _Maureen_ did the proposing?"

"I don't like your tone."

I laugh with gusto and beam at her, suddenly caring whole-heartedly. "I would've never suspected."

"Oh I _know_!" Agrees Joanne. "That makes this all the more incredible!"

Maureen looks at the floor and blushes, mumbling grudgingly, "Well, I _do_ love you…"

Joanne laughs and smacks her on the shoulder and they kiss for a minute and I stare with my head still in my palms. "…Yeah, after fourteen years of coexisting you finally decide to get hitched. It's only appropriate." I roll my eyes and pretend to fall asleep.

"Well Marky, we can't legally marry. But it'll be a _civil_ _union_. We'll just coexist for longer, and under law. With engagement rings! " Maureen pulls out of the kiss to spitefully wave her ring at me for the umpteenth time. I open an eye.

Suddenly I grow restless and find I can't delay any further.

"Roger!" I blurt, hunching forward on the table, fingers splayed. I must look ridiculous because Maureen glances over her shoulder as if he'd suddenly walked in behind her. She turns back around, smirk dwindling, and under her breath to Joanne growls, "Why does he keep _saying_ that?"

Joanne, however, looks concerned and takes a step towards me, prepared for discussion or condolence or…a breakdown. I'm really fed up with that look. Joanne's, 'I'm here for you' look. Her, 'I totally and completely understand what you're going through' look.

Ha.

Doesn't she have something _better_ to do than dwell on my misfortune? Like plan a wedding?

"What's up?" She asks, her voice low.

I yank the flyer out of my pocket and dangle it above the table. Unexpectedly, the impact and uncertainty of this whole night's events comes cascading onto me, and I fall backwards into the chair.

That was _really_ Roger!

I didn't even recognize him.

He sounded so different. He looked so…different!

But he's _back_!

He's back.

He's back?

What the _hell_ is he _doing_ _back_?!

I crumple the flyer into a tight little wad.

"-Mark?" Joanne interjects. My kitchen comes back into focus and I look up to find both of them staring at me expectantly. I quickly tuck the flyer into my jacket.

"Huh?"

"…Are you okay?"

"Yeah! I'm fine…"

"Really? Because _normally_, when you're fine, you don't shout, 'Roger!' and then stare off into space."

Maureen nods in agreement.

"…Okay, listen. Guys? _Congratulations_! This was really unexpected. This is really great. And… I'd really like to go celebrate this joyous occasion."

Joanne looks disbelieving but Maureen says, "Really?"

I nod smugly, pull out the flyer, and present it to Joanne, growling, "Wanna go?"

I watch the same contortion in her face that I imagine crossed mine. She lowers the flyer quickly and stares at me.

I smile, mouth closed, and shrug.

"_What_?" Maureen stamps her foot and snatches the paper. She glances over it hastily, disapproving, and shoves it to Joanne's chest. She gives me a blank stare.

Then something clicks. Her face reddens and she blinks, doing an exaggerated double-take. "Wh- Roger!"

I can't help but laugh.

"Whoa whoa whoa," Joanne takes hold of my shoulders and backs me up into a chair. She points, "Sit. Talk."

I sit but anxiously rise to my feet again. "Not to put a damper on your news-"

"No Mark, you're not. This is _great_! Roger?! I _wish_ you would've told us _sooner_! Oh my God, is he _okay_? How is he- why did he- why the _fuck_ did he leave?!"

I scowl tensely at Joanne's panicked state. "I don't know."

"Wh- you don't- What the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?!" Joanne whips the ball of paper at me and I flinch. Maureen pats Joanne's back and hisses, "Calm. Calm _down_…" Apparently Roger is a more sensitive topic than I'd guessed…

"I _mean_, I don't _know_."

"Well then what the fuck is _that_?!" Joanne stamps maliciously at the paper on the floor.

"I know just as much as you Jo. I was at the library, minding my own business, and here comes Roger _fuck-ing_ Davis, waltzing up the aisle behind me. 'Ooh, you should get 'Animal Farm', he says." I wave the paperback madly.

"And me, I don't know- I didn't even _recognize_ him! I swear to God you guys, it didn't even look like Roger. He looked like _shit_. I caught him out of the corner of my eye; I said, 'Oh, thanks for the suggestion!' and the little…_bastard_ goes, 'No problem!' and skips away like fucking _Bambi_! What the hell? And before it fully registers that he was good 'ol Rog… -he's gone. Poof! Gone. Ag-ain. And this cordial little invitation was tucked neatly on my windshield. What the hell do you think of that?!"

My chest heaves.

Joanne gawks at the paper. "That's it?"

"Ha! No! And then the _librarian_ tells me he'd been a regular visitor to the library for a steady two years."

"T-wh- _two_?"

"Two."

"…Well holy shit."

"Uh-huh! That's what I said Joanne, _that's_ what I said..."

"What are you gonna do abou-"

"I don't know! I _don't_ know! I was hoping _you'd_ know. What should I do? ...Oh, alright Rog. Sounds _fab_! I'll just rock out at your show, and then maybe we can grab a bite at the Life, hm? Gee I missed ya buddy!"

Joanne giggles and groans simultaneously. "Maybe this is his way of saying sorry…? I mean, it is rather tactful, don't you think? I mean, you were there- imagine how awkward it would've been to formally greet each other. At least he's being discreet about it. He's…giving you time to think. Look at how pissed _I_ am. I bet he thinks you hate his guts. Which…you do…right? If you don't show then he'll know he's in the wrong…"

I punch the table. "I don't know! Oh God. Boy do I ever _hate_ his guts. I just…he's…he was… should I go? What if I don't go? What if he's testing me? What if this is a once in a lifetime thing? 'If Mark doesn't show up then I'm outta here…' No! I don't want that to happen! I…he…what if…he can't- Lord, I _missed_ him! Roger…I have to…I have to…I have to go just to clear my head. To get some fucking _answers_. It's only right. …Right? Ha, fuck. What should I do?"

"_Go_ Mark! If this _is_ a one-time thing you'd better jump on it! Heaven knows we'll be able to find him again- or if he _wants_ to be found, for that matter. Jesus Roger!"

"Oh…" I moan, and put my head in my hands. Joanne gives me her trademark face and this time I'm thankful for it. She rubs my back and her features harden.

"…You wanna celebrate Mark? Then we'll fucking celebrate. Because Goddamnit!" She pounds the table. "We want Roger Davis at our reception. Right Maureen?"

Maureen is silent. I peek up at her through my fingers and her lip quivers.

"…He's really back?"

I smile sadly and shake my head. "Lord, I hope so."

"It's settled then. We're all going to that concert. All three of us. One big happy family- to put Roger back in his place. Here. With us. Is that all right with you?"

I shrug indecisively. "I don't _know_ if it's all right with me. Holy shit…this isn't cool at all. Honestly I wasn't ever expecting him to show his face here ever again…"

"Liar. Stop that. Do you want us there or not? I know you're going. We'll be your posse. Trust me, we've got some things to say to that boy too…"

"Please come with me."

Joanne grins. "Do you think you'll forgive him?"

My head throbs. "Forgive…forgive him for _what_? Trying to escape? I mean…I don't really know if I'm mad. That's what he _does_! He tries to get away. He's insecure. No, I'm not mad, but I'm _disappointed_… I don't think I could ever trust him again. Shit I missed him…. Shit! Why does this have to be _hard_? This should be a given! We should take him back, right? With open arms? He was messed up. Maybe he's cooled down…figured things out…? Maybe he needs _us_ now? I don't know. Let's just go. We can't _not_ go. What kind of friend would I be?"

"Pick us up at nine."

I smile. "Thank you guys."

Joanne lightens up a bit and waves her hand, "Don't _worry_ about it! Frankly I'm rather excited. This is only gonna be the most rockin' reunion…ever! CBGB's? Fuck yeah!" She throws up a rock sign and sticks out her tongue. "Roger's favorite group 'o groupies, front and center! Who do you think he'll eye up first Maur? Me? You? Or…Mark?" She playfully pushes my shoulder and I blush. "Oh Mark dah-ling I've missed you!" She clutches her heart and swoons.

She sees that I'm diffident and pecks a kiss on my cheek. "Smile Mark." She commands. "Right now. Because Roger's back." They both stare at me hopefully.

"Are you gonna be okay pookie?" Maureen whispers. I nod bashfully and feel a twinge of respect.

…Maureen missed Roger too. She steps over and takes my hand.

"What are you doing tonight?" She asks. "Do you want to… come over and look at dresses?"

Where do I find friends like these?

I sigh. "Can't. Work."

"Oh that's right... Well _fuck_." Maureen is suddenly herself again. "Tell Patrick to go fuck himself and come anyway."

I smile. "… I'm more than obligated to go to work. I really need something to take my mind off this- something more engaging then dresses, I mean…"

"_Engaging_? What's more engaging than wedding dresses? We're _engaged_, for Pete's sake!"

"I'll take a rain check. Maybe after the concert. We'll ask Roger if he wants to help."

"That's the spirit! We can pick out Roger's dress too. We've always wanted him to be the flower girl, right Joanne?"

"Eh…" Joanne shrugs, trying hard to buy into the humor. "Something like that…"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When Collins was on his last legs, we used to sit alone in my bedroom at the loft, bored and cursed, and gripe like bitter old men.

"We should kill ourselves, it'd be fun." Collins laughs with a dark travesty I'd never expect from his healthy alter ego. "More fun than waiting anxiously on a deathbed anyway."

"Sure, sounds great. Let's do it." I reply, with a frightened hint of a warning in my voice. I am not keen on any more death or loss in this 'family', even if it's just the two of us left.

"I was kidding Mark."

"I'm not in the mood for comedy."

He thinks a minute. "Yeah…me neither," he sighs. Then he asks ambiguously, "What _are_ you in the mood for?"

I punch him lightly on the shoulder and smile weakly. "Comedy."

"Okay, knock knock."

I sigh. "Who's there?"

"Roger."

"Roger who?"

"Exactly."

I nod and smirk, "Good one." But then immediately look longingly out the window.

"Oh- sorry." Collins mumbles.

"For what?" My head snaps up to meet his eyes.

"For bringing that up…nevermind."

I shake my head, assuring him that it didn't bother me, and Collins nods, the assuring me that deep down somewhere he knew it actually did.

There's an awkward silence for a minute while we both stare out at the rooftops.

"Now what should we do?"

"Let's watch a movie!" Collins suggests, indicating my camera near his feet.

"No." Is all I need to say.

"Why-"

"No."

"Then let's _make_ a movie!" He grabs my chin suddenly, thrusting his arm out and twisting my face so I am at arm's length and staring him in the eyes. "To be, or not to be-"

"I pick 'to be'." And slap his hand away.

"Okay, you don't want to do that either… Well what _do_ you want to do?"

"Let's talk philosophy."

Collins wrinkles his nose and his smirk fades. At this point in his life he'd succumbed to the mundane also, and had to take permanent sick leave from teaching. When forced to confront death, one does a serious self-reflection, and Collins, by default, decided that his former life of anarchy was a senseless display of mischief, and his devotion philosophy was only a fancy way of trying to explain the unexplainable. Like dying.

This all made him very angry at the world, and the only philosophies he clung to anymore were gloomy and not that far from my own.

"Why not." He growls.

"Okay, pick one- destiny or karma."

"Karma."

"Okay. Wanna know what I think about karma? I think we're all fucked."

"Ooh. You would've made a great professor."

"Thanks."

"Now do destiny."

"Easy. Death is the final destination."

"No Mark, it's not that easy."

"Why?"

"Well if we're all fucked we can't just _die_ and end it."

"...I can think of three people who'd disagree."

"Ha! April cheated, and Angel deserved to go." He glares at me threateningly and takes a breath. "And Mimi-"

"Had Roger as punishment."

"Ooh. Good one." Collins mocks.

"Well then what happens to screw _us_ over before we can escape karma?"

"Well in my case-"

"AIDS."

"Thanks for reminding me."

"No problem. And in Benny's case-"

"Marriage."

"Oh ha ha."

"You wanted comedy."

"Touche. And Roger?"

"Hm. He's an exception to the rule, I think. It was reverse psychology with that boy." Collins' eyes light up, suddenly into the conversation. "He thinks by running away he can avoid his fate. But that's not true, is it? He's still has AIDS and he has worse things to haunt him."

"Grief." I add quietly, openly letting it bother me this time.

Collins doesn't seem to notice and continues, "And loneliness, assuming wherever he's gone he's lonely. And when he comes back he'll have to face all of us. He's doing it wrong."

'He sure is…' I think. Then I sputter, "...And me?"

"You?"

"Yeah. What about me? My fate."

"Acceptance." He replies immediately. Then he thinks a moment. "…Adaptation."

"Like how?"

"Like mostly internally. But in _every_ way really. Are you afraid of change Mark?"

"Not generally. But it's persistent and annoying and seems to be linked to my karma."

"Well buddy? Then you're fucked."

He mocks a happy grin as his AZT buzzer sounds, breaking my silence. He pops three pills dry, and watches me think.

"Adapt how?" I finally ask.

"Well I think," He swallows. "First you'll have to get a job. Like it or not."

"Not."

"That wasn't a choice."

Only now, on my way to work, I can clearly see what Collins meant.

--I work the night shift in one of the isolated and beautiful digital editing suites of the IFC Center in Greenwich. I busted my ass to get this job- and I _suppose_ I love it. I montage film- flatbed editing practically every show and special feature to grace the airwaves. A behind the scenes work of art. An opportunity to do what I love and watch my name roll past in the credits in all its filmmaking glory. ...A fucking nighttime nine-to-five that's sucked every last second of my free time and ambition, warping my will of ad hoc filming and turning it into something nightly, mundane.

'I need to finish my own film-I quit!' Is a bold and unthinkable statement that would ultimately result in termination.

I suppose it's not as bad as I make it sound. It doesn't _completely_ kill my determination for a documentary. It's more like a sedative- immersing myself amongst the whirring reels, mechanically feeding film to the starving projectors- simultaneously feeding my own innate addiction. I drown in film on a nightly basis. The reflexive word being 'drown'. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. Did I want this life or not? So far, this was my only supportive course of action…

A sacrifice of integrity for the cinematographic cause! What I'd do for art…

--

I mainly came to work to be humored by my boss, Patrick. He was a man with a head on his shoulders and a vision for his production company. A man who was good at what he did, but contented to a fault- not unlike me. Someone who lost Bohemia somewhere too… He was balding- the kinda guy that drives a Nissan and wears cardigans; approachable and congenial, sarcastic- but his bite was dulled by stress and discontent.

Very, very much a reflection of myself.

Patrick had therefore been a stand-in friend- someone to latch onto in Roger's absence, although he was a mere substitute and never a replacement. In fact, we weren't actually that close. He'd never be Roger, he wasn't cool enough to be Roger, and he wasn't enough a part of me to be Roger. I didn't know much about him other than the fact that he was mediocre and middle aged. –Someone I never in a _million_ years imagined I'd be inviting over for coffee on weekends. It sickened me to some extent- that this was what my life had come to. Being buddy-buddy with my boss. I'd resorted to complaining but giving in to pay the bills, buying Tylenol for tension headaches, an air freshener for the car I was dependant on to get to and from work, Lysol to scour my (legal) stove. I hated myself for being so fucking middling, but I didn't know what else to do about it. Art, love and friendship had all betrayed me- and all I had left was work. My only reliability.

'Dive into work.' Drown in film. That's right. I have a job.

--

"…Hey Patrick." I whisper gently as I push through the darkroom curtains. He's slicing negatives. It's enough of a nightmare to interrupt a filmmaker at work, but Patrick's downright nightmarish, hunched over, face palely illuminated with a combination of the underglow from the lightboard and the red darkroom filters.

The blade goes 'swink!' and half a roll of negatives spiral to the floor.

"Ha ha!" Patrick muses triumphantly, twirling the other half like a ribbon dancer. "Fastest _shears_ in the West!"

I return his cheesy grin and tenderly pluck the rejected film from the dusty floor. I hold both ends up to the light and examine the contents.

"What'd you cut?"

"First ninety frames of the Bogosian special."

"Why?"

"They retaped his whole intro with a live audience. For effect. _Comedians_, go figure..." He shakes his head and wanders to the gigantic wall of film reels. He wiggles his fingers over the labels, singing the alphabet until he finds the desired letter and plucks the spool from its place.

"Here," He flings it at me like a Frisbee. "Hook her up and sew her up, Dr. Frankenstein."

I check my watch.

"Deadline?"

"I'll give you thirty minutes."

My jaw drops. "You're not serious. This is due in a half hour?"

"Eh…" He shifts his shoulders. "More or less…"

The fall season is starting for The IFC Channel. New treatments are flooding in non-stop, new episodes for old shows need polishing, promotional spots are pulled from the woodwork and forced on the editors to be ready for airing before ratings can finalize. Producers relentlessly trample through the cutting room and raise hell. There's a tight-fitting crunch for finished product, and the stress level is out the roof. Of all the things to have in common, Patrick and I shared a flaw for procrastinating until it was _absolutely_ necessary to kick it into gear.

I feed a strip of workprint into the duster hastily. At least _Roger_ used to bludgeon me into- "Yow!"

I slice my finger, instantly bleeding, though luckily on the unwanted negatives.

"-You okay?"

I stick my finger in my mouth.

"Physically, yes." I snap, peeved that Roger is clouding my concentration.

Patrick peeks around the film shelves.

"You're _not_ okay?"

"No." I grumble. "Hey- you got a minute? I need your input on something."

"Can you work and talk? This overhaul really screwed us over. It'll be our asses if this isn't patched by eleven. Sorry Mark."

Pissed, I dig in a drawer for a box of bandages. "Naw, Pat I'll just finish this first…But remind me to talk to you later."

"Good man." Patrick nods amenably. "Now make me proud."

My bandaged finger throbs slightly and feels clumsy while streaming film. I can barely slide the workprints into the sleeves because I unwillingly decide to get jumpy about Tuesday night. I can't focus.

"Patrick?" I call, my voice resembling an apprehensive child freshly woken from a bad dream.

"Yes?" He snips, lugging a portable kiosk into the room with contained exertion. He thunks it onto a table and watches me with mounting impatience. I catch his hint and resume winding the overdue film.

"Question."

"Uh-huh?" He hovers like a vulture.

"…Do you think…that I could have off Tuesday night…?"

An opaque stare. "…_Why_?"

"Umm…"

"Spit it out Mark, time is money!" He gives me an apologetic wince.

I sigh. "…Well, it's one of those things where even if you refuse I'm going to call in sick. So I'm not asking permission as much as giving you a head's up."

I stop winding again to scrutinize his reaction.

He points firmly at the immobile handle and I sigh and continue cranking.

"Can I ask specifics?"

"…Let's pretend it's an emergency."

"You know Mark, although I support imagination, I discourage frivolous sick days..."

Frustrated, I promise, "Then it _is_ an emergency."

"Cohen. I have ties to Ms. Darling-"

My stomach drops in humiliation. "That doesn't count…"

"When you're an _employer_ it counts… That's a disgrace on your resume. If it wasn't for your instinctive knack for continuity in your cuts, and your charisma and _integrity_-" He stops to remind me to wind and stops being droll. "-You're lucky I hired you."

I ball my fist. "Oh, _come_ on. Don't hold that against me Pat! I couldn't handle a job. Not then." I shake my head in sympathy for myself.

"I'm not holding anything against you Mark. I saw what came out of that. I _appointed_ you based on what came out of that. But when you commit yourself to a job that's just what you do. _Commit_. Regardless of circumstance-"

"You hate Buzzline!"

"They're _network_ _contenders_! Of _course_ I hate them Mark! I hate them by _contract_. But they somehow fish out the best production team in the tri-state area! I love it because now we get to rub it in their faces that we've snatched you from the dark side. And even better, your past is behind you now… We've managed to get your head where it belongs- here in the studio. I don't _want_ you skipping work- you might get big ideas."

He grins jokingly but suddenly I loathe him.

"My friends were _dying_ Patrick."

"And you were _supporting_ them Mark-"

"No! No. I wasn't. Not that way. They _needed_ me. I needed to be there. Not promoting exploitation on some superficial news network... for nine hours a day- away from home. Away from- them."

"Cohen? Calm down and wind the projector." He flicks on his kiosk and loads a second spool. "If you can tell me why- so I can rest assured you're not ditching to go barhopping and moonlighting- I will call in someone else to work for you."

Downright pissed that he'd accuse me of barhopping, I yank the prints off their liter card and cram them into a case.

"You want off, don't you?" His power over me blocks my haughtiness. "This is obviously something important. Tell me and you're free. Be honest."

To spite him I want to say, "I need to go to a concert." But instead I tell the truth.

"Roger's back."

"Oh?"

Patrick only has a vague indication of the seriousness of Roger's disappearance, but he'd been informed enough to know that his return was of utmost importance.

"Yes, '_oh_.' May I meet with him please? I'll even come in tomorrow to make up for lost time. I cross my stone-cold heart."

Patrick pretends to heavily weigh the consequences.

"-You can fire me Pat, but I promise you I'm going at _any_ rate."

"For the love of God…if I didn't value you so much I'd say no. Threaten me one more time and the deal's off."

"So I'm clear?"

"Crystal. I can see right through ya."

"This isn't a _scam_ Patrick. I'll be reporting for duty _same_ time on Wednesday!"

"I trust you. You promise?"

"Do _you_ promise?"

"Cross my stone-cold heart."

"Well I'm glad. Because I have a feeling this is going to be really important."

Patrick still looks slightly disbelieving. He nods softly and walks away.

It's quiet again, and I assume he's giving me time to confess whether or not this _is_ 'really important'. I'm gravely dissatisfied- I thought he'd give me some kind of leeway out of understanding.

"…So…when did he show up?" Patrick suddenly calls, nonchalantly, with a twinge of an apology.

I smile.

"Today."

"Really? And now you're catching up on Tuesday?"

"Ha. I certainly hope so…"

"_That_ sounds promising…"

"Well he's such a _fuckhead_ Pat!-"

"Language, my dear boy."

"He _is_! Gone for fourteen years without as much as a goodbye, and now he's inviting me to his concert like nothing ever happened-"

"Wait- …concert?"

Whoops.

I sigh. "Yes, concert…"

Patrick reenters and I expect a rebuttal of our agreement, but instead he's thrilled. "_Roger's_ concert? His band?"

I look at him charily and dig out the wrinkled flyer.

"Mark!" Patrick spins joyfully. "Oh…I am _jealous_! A reunion show? _Shit_!"

"What?"

"The Hungarians dude! Oh man Mark…I used to _worship_ them. CBGB's, every Tuesday night. Me and my marketing buddies used to go. Right from work."

I laugh, amazed and relieved. "But- you _knew_ he was frontman-"

"Indeed I did know that. But he dropped off the face of the earth! Alright Cohen, we're rethinking terms. Get me an autograph and you're home free."

"…But what if I can't?"

"Well aren't you his best friend?" Patrick stops himself to amazedly gasp, "_Roger_ Davis' _best_ _friend_…whoa…"

I furiously wind the projector and ponder, "Ha. That's a _good_ question Patrick. A _very_ good question…"


	4. The Postman Always Rings Twice

**Author's Note**_: Okay. So... Mark was __**never**__ supposed to be kidnapped in this story. Ever. Nothing even close. None of that action-adventure nonsense was in the original plotline of 'Strangers'. At all. It was a stupid, stupid tangent, I was testing the waters, and I'm __**sorry**_

_So, if you'll forgive me- and, if you can find it in your heart to accept that I have started anew- rightfully on point this time- I have the actual chapters to offer. I am deeply in love with this story, and with Mark, and I really want to continue this. And…trust me, it'll be much easier to read without Mark bleeding all over the place._

_Thanks for understanding…?_

-------------------------------------------------

Of all the things running through my mind before the concert on Tuesday afternoon, I find that I am (annoyingly) most troubled by what to wear.

I narrow my clothing options into two absolutes: This was _not_ an appropriate venue for a tuxedo, although it _was_ a subliminal obligation of mine to spark nostalgia within Roger through my choice of clothing.

Until this afternoon, I'd never been conscious that I possessed a distinct style. But now, standing with my hands on my hips in front of my closet, scrupulously evaluating my wardrobe, I notice a running pattern. Disregarding the occasional dressy blazer or knit polo, I owned mostly fitted sweaters, casual tennis shoes, and corduroy slacks. Any trace of attire suitable for intermingling with throngs of rock enthusiasts I had long outgrown (maturely and physically) and disposed of.

But, I concluded, this was presently an advantage.

I didn't have backstage passes; and with fourteen years of unfamiliarity between us, dressing nerdily and looking awkward- displaced in the earsplitting substratum of the youthful Manhattan rock scene- was the most vibrant way to catch Roger's eye from onstage.

Then I remembered that this was a reunion show, and I was more likely to be seen by burnt-out fans than overly critical new age punks. If I camouflaged myself in a band t-shirt, no one in the audience would even be sober enough to read it anyway.

Pacing my carpet, I sit down in the patch of afternoon sunlight streaming through my tiny bedroom window and ponder the near future, chin-on-fist.

What the hell am I going to say to him? Is this supposed to be uncomfortable, or am I supposed to be reliable old Mark and pretend like nothing ever happened? Will he expect that of me? How _dare_ he have expectations after all this mystery? Fucking coward…

…Will I even recognize him? I already failed once at recognizing him- there was only the smallest trace of Roger Davis left in this…stranger- The phone rings!

I reach onto my bedside table and paw the receiver into my lap.

"Hello?-"

"Mark-?" There's a distressed voice of a woman I've never heard.

"Speaking."

There's a blare of feedback and a gust of static and her end goes dead.

"Weird." I say to the inanimate phone.

I wait a few seconds and stare into the mouthpiece- in case someone calls back- but it remains silent and soon the dial tone kicks in.

Bothered, I lose my train of thought and stand to hang up the telephone. Dusting off my pants, I resume my post in front of the closet door and stand akimbo, visually narrowing down my clothing options.

--Twenty minutes later I've settled on a simple black t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of Converse. Feeling fashionably stable, I saunter into my claustrophobic little bathroom to muss my hair and brush my teeth. My stomach clenches a great deal, insides vividly protesting my foreseeable discomfort. Accidentally sticking my toothbrush too far down my throat, I wretch a little, and the combination of the gag reflex and my escalating nausea make me want to all-out hurl in my sink. Mouth burning with stomach acids, I'm forced to reload the toothbrush and start over, although minty-freshness does nothing particularly soothing.

After gargling and compulsively cleaning my glasses, I march back and forth past my kitchen clock and wish time would either stop of speed up or do something other than tick and drive me insane.

I contemplate whether or not I should accessorize, (like that really matters) and conclude I own nothing to accessorize with even if I wanted to. There is my scarf, which is more iconographic of a film school dropout than a music gormandizer, (besides, I haven't worn that thing in years) and…my camera.

--When Cindy used to play with Barbies she had a Ken labeled, 'Director Ken'. He had a little red beret, a brown leather jacket cropped at the waist, knee high jockey-style boots, and a monocle. Sold separately as accessories were, his director's chair, megaphone, and camera. Roger and I used to stare at this unfortunate plastic man and laugh. "So this is how a filmmaker dresses?" Roger asked one day, preoccupied with finding 'Scuba Diving Ken' and miming Barbie's edition of 'Jaws' using his hands as the shark. "No director I've ever seen wears such tacky clothes. Not even you."

I am busy undressing Malibu Barbie for her skinny-dipping scene, and chuck her bikini at him. "It's supposed to be reminiscent of the 1940s."

"Whatever. All filmmakers are nerds. The only cool thing about this Ken is his camera."

--Roger's subliminal stab at me echoes like a mantra. If I wanted to spark nostalgia in Roger that would be the correct accessory for the job. I surpass the ticking kitchen clock and reenter my closet for the gajillionth time, burrowing in back and tenderly pulling my camera from its case.

Then I hesitate.

Is this really appropriate?

I don't want to seem trapped in time. The camera isn't glued to my face anymore. It's not a part of me anymore. It's…an accessory. I've changed. I am Mark: Camera sold separately. Outwardly that's Patrick's fault. But if Roger is going to be sappy and nostalgic at this reunion, he'll want to remember me as I was when he left. Therefore I could be downright spiteful and leave the camera at home. He'd be expecting a full-length feature- September 12th, 10pm EST, Roger Davis triumphantly returns!

…No. It didn't work that way. I was not excited for this. And it was definitely not a 'photo op'. Roger seized the opportunity to be as clichéd as possible: 'Oh how revolutionary. Roger is playing guitar…' Nice touch. Just like old times.

Bad-tempered, I put the camera back in its box and toss it on the bed. If he wanted to talk to Mark, he could talk to me face to face.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Black was somehow deemed color of choice for the occasion.

Slightly embarrassed that I'd claimed Roger's car without his permission, I opted for a taxi as transportation to Maureen and Joanne's apartment, and to the concert.

When the cab pulls up in front of their building, they hurry elatedly out the lobby door, attached at the hip, and topple on top of me in the backseat.

Joanne, as usual, is slightly more reserved in her choice of habiliments, donning a simple black turtleneck with black jeans and spiked heels. Maureen, of course, selected the more essential look of iron-straightened hair plastered beneath a red bandana, and a dangerously low-cut black tank top, leather mini-skirt, and high-heeled boots.

Joanne, who has been shoved next to me, grabs my thigh and squeezes it excitedly. "Are you ready guys?" She looks from me to Maureen, and then squeals at the cabbie, "TO THE BOWERY!"

Maureen inconsiderately shoves Joanne against the seatback and asks me, "So how do you think this is going to work?"

Fueled by the butterflies in my stomach, I snap, "How many times do I have to say it? I know as much as you do. Personally I'm hoping he'll just meet us at the door, so whatever tension is going to exist can get done and over with right away."

Maureen unwraps a piece of bubblegum that she has somehow produced from the nether regions of her cleavage, pops it in her mouth, and asks noisily, "You gonna fight him?"

Shying away from her inquisitive gum-smacking, I scoot towards the window and shrug insecurely.

"-You know what I'd like to see Mark?" Joanne bounces impatiently in her seat. "I'd love to see you pop 'em one. Right in the balls. Push past the security guard and just yell, 'Welcome _back_ Roger!' BAM! And then let's see if he can sing."

Despite my nervousness I laugh out loud, which turns Joanne into a giggling wreck in my lap. Maureen lets out a few honest chuckles and searches my face.

"You want to, dontcha?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose and nod reluctantly.

"Oh, _please_ do it." Joanne takes my hand from my face. "I don't even care where you hit him. Just hit him and hit him hard. And I swear to God if you don't I will."

"Well what if he hits Mark back?" Maureen interjects.

"Then I hit him again!" I snap, with more anger than I knew I had, considering the circumstance.

"Yeah Mark! Start a good 'ol fashioned punk rock barfight! Before you know it you won't even be punching Roger anymore and you'll wake up in a hospital bed with a fractured skull and some wicked awesome battle scars! Now _that's_ a Hungarians show!"

Joanne nearly breaks her seatbelt with pure energy, and Maureen and I stare at her until she realizes it and calms down.

"…Remind me to keep her away from the liquor tonight." Maureen demands, as Joanne blushes.

...I am suddenly absorbed in thought, and I gaze distantly out the window, up at the passing streetlights, and confess robotically, "The last time I physically fought Roger had to have been in '88. What a _fun _chain of events…"

My outlying tone causes both women to swivel around and face me.

"...It was like, July." I begin, after I realize I have their attention. "Yeah. That must've been…July. Because I just moved in and that was… _Oh_ _God_. That had to have been about a week before April…a week before April died. He was at the end of his rope and she was just fading, and neither of them _understood_ each other. Holy _fuck_ did they piss me off! He was always harping on her. Bullying her into optimism, basically. He wanted her to cheer up so he could figure her out and calm down. But she would just tuck away into her room. And I didn't want anything to do with it. So I would leave the house. Film. Take a walk. At that point New York was still new to me. It was still this _amazing_ place…" I smile a little at the memory.

"...Ha- I mean, it was no Providence, that's for damn sure. No Scarsdale. Why should I have sat around in a stuffy apartment and listened to my roommates bitch when I had the whole fucking _world_ outside… F. Scott Fitzgerald once called New York 'the city of undergraduate dissipation.' I used to _live_ by that... The _world_ was my playground! So, I didn't really talk to Roger when I first moved here…I was too absorbed in my own explorations, and he was too absorbed in his own…well, _habits_… I came to Alphabet City to help him but, he didn't want to be…helped.

"But one day- _this_ day, I was fucking elated. I'd just gotten home from filming Maureen performing in Astor- …"

I stop suddenly and blush at the memory. Maureen blushes too. We both give each other shameful glances and look out opposite windows of the cab. I cough and examine a button on my coat.

…This day was a turning point my relationship with Maureen as well. She hired me as production manager based on that footage of her, and I think she was _really _impressed with my work (and smitten with me) from that point. We'd had some… a _lot_ of…wild sex after the show. My face burns and I glare tensely at Joanne.

She squints and taps me on the arm.

"Mark? I _think _you were going for pensiveness with this story, not 'make-Joanne-feel- like-shit'..."

"...Didn't mean to..."

"Pookie?" Maureen interjects embarrassedly. Joanne and I both respond to the name.

"Girls and horses Maureen…" I grumble, looking again at my coat button.

"_Mark_… I _loved_ you. I _still_ love you. Just not…"

"-Maureen? Mark? This was a story about _Roger_. Now what were you saying Mark...?"

I glance at Joanne again, though thankfully this time, biting back the unremitting jealousy that still bares it's teeth whenever they're together. I smile apologetically at the brides-to-be and continue.

"…So I'd just gotten home. And I was feeling pretty good. The last thing I needed- or _expected_- was a mini-rampage taking place in the kitchen. I was ready to report domestic violence…I didn't even know all that noise was coming from our apartment. But it was Roger and April, the humble couple, in for a night at home. I was scared to put the keys in the lock; I knew already that Roger wasn't himself. He couldn't have been high, otherwise he wouldn't have been that…_loud_. So I get the door open a crack and there's April looking tragic, sniffling in a corner, face all streaked and black with mascara- and there goes my high. I was so fucking _sick_ of seeing that face. My whole day was ruined. April heard me come in and got scared- I don't know _why_- but she jumped up and ducked into her room and slammed the door on Roger. Ooh, and did this piss _him_ off! He kicked her door open-I was in the kitchen by now- and I saw him kick it and he cried, '_Please_ April!' And she screamed and he grabbed her by the wrist and flung her against the wall- and then I- ran in and I said, I think I said, 'Just leave her _alone_ Roger!' and he let go of her really fast and kicked a chair over, and he marched right up to my face and said, 'No. _You_ leave _me_ alone.' And he pushed me into the hallway and got ready to slam the door on me but I shouldered the door ….and I pulled him out into the hallway…and so I grabbed him and I shook him and I said, '_Stop_ it!' And then he just- he hit me. Dead-on, in the face. I swear to God I thought he broke my nose.

"And April just screamed and I wasn't gonna take it. _Anymore_. It needed to fucking _stop_. His temper, her whining, _the_ _heroin_- everything. So I just took all of my disgust- with him- with both of them, and I punched him in the stomach. I knocked him right up against the wall and I grabbed his collar and said, very calmly, 'Quit it Roger, okay? Because I'm _really_ tired of this.' And I think he was intimidated by me because he shoved me backwards, but he got up and he closed April in her bedroom and he _left_. He'd never hit me before. And he never laid a hand on her. And he never- he never apologized. …For anything."

Suddenly, I am trembling and wishing the cab could get us there faster. "FOR ANYTHING HE'S _EVER_ DONE! He never fucking- that _coward_. Thanks for SAVING MY _LIFE_ Mark. Thanks for HELPING ME THROUGH WITHDRAWAL! For ALWAYS BEING THERE FOR ME, because I'm so _WILLING_ to do the same…"

My fists are balled and I can see my reflection in the tinted cab window. My features are unsentimental and my face is red. For a minute there I was on the verge of tears, but that was decidedly the most futile way to handle tonight. Roger and I needed to hurry up and get reacquainted before forgiveness could set in. I didn't want to do anything now other than contain this anger until I could unleash it to prove a point. I've had it _up_ _to_ _the_ _gills_. If Roger's greeting was anything near, 'Wow Mark, it's been a while…" that was guaranteed to upend me, and someone, depending on the restraint of my anger, was going home with an icepack.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was never a more opportune time for me to get drunk. Thanks to tonight's sympathetic karma, we arrive early, even before any roadies- or _band_ _members_, for that matter…

The bar is magnetized and I rush to it with Maureen and Joanne at my heels.

"Careful Mark." Maureen exhorts, "This _is_ your best friend Roger. Remember that first."

Desperate to get a buzz before they dim the houselights, I shake my head and appropriately order two Kamikazes upfront.

"Mark…" Joanne warns, twisting a glass from my grip. "Slow down. I don't want you getting us kicked out." She stealthily takes a sip herself.

I reclaim my drink and nosily guzzle around the ice cubes. "I'm not going to get us kicked out. I'm just…nervous. What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty."

"Do you think he's gonna look for us before they play?"

Maureen wrenches the glass away from my face and takes a generous gulp. "God, I don't know. Should we make a plan? Some sort of choreographed greeting? Should we harmonize 'Hello Roger!' or wear signs or something…?"

"I think we should just let him find us." I growl, remembering too late that I have to work tomorrow and an unpleasant reunion is not the world's best chaser. Fated every which way you look at it, I down the rest of my Triple sec and begin nursing the other.

"Well what if he thinks we aren't coming? Wouldn't that be embarrassing if he made a shout out?"

"Nobody knows who the fuck we are, so who cares?" Inside, I laugh at my rotten and intoxicated outspokenness. Joanne scowls at me but then kicks me under the bar stood and whispers, "Buy me a drink."

Stingily, I shovel out a few fives for the both of them, pissed that they weren't courteous enough to bring their own cash. Then I remember that they were nice enough to be my posse- and my dates, and I feel less miserly.

I spin around on my stool and watch newcomers to the club out of the fuzzy corners of my vision. Every scruffy, middle-aged man in leather and denim that enters makes me more and more nauseous and more and more pumped. Not certain if I can even concentrate anymore without puking, let alone jump up and throw a punch, I stand and give in to nature's call.

"Gotta pee." I tell my lesbian entourage.

"No! Don't leave us here! What if he comes?"

"He's just as likely to be taking a wiz. Just- try to blend in. And if he does show up, whatever. It's not like he's the second coming of Christ. You have every right to bitch him out."

My bladder cannot stay to chat a second longer, and I waddle to the men's room with a resolute speed.

There's a strange station of punk Muzak wafting through the speakers in the bathroom- a jazzy instrumental cabaret of Dead Kennedy songs, and hilariously my pee swirls down the drain in sync with the music. Drunk, I watch it alleviate and disappear, and all I feel like doing is resting my forehead against the grimy, graffited bathroom wall and relieving myself.

I don't know how long I stand there, but all I know is that I experience a reversal of my insides. My brain is pleasantly on stand-by, streaming in sleep mode, like some fucked-up version of a bleeping Technicolor signoff broadcast. I am neither apprehensive nor awake. I tell myself that my heart should be beating faster, that I should be rekindling that anger I'd harnessed earlier in the taxi, or rehearsing the lines I had (not) planned to recite to dear old Roger.

I make an effort to pull my face away from the urinal. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to be tense, try to prepare-

Prepare for _what_?

An embrace- holding one another at arm's length and taking each other in? The marginal possibility that a hug might just be a little _too_ cordial, a little too _forced_, given the circumstances? Not knowing _what_ to do, what to say- and in that instance, how to go about crafting distinctive small talk? Shall I get right to the point? Let loose? Dump all my woes and prying inquires into his lap and watch as he scrambles to sort them out?

You're playing this by _ear_- I wistfully remind myself.

My dormant brain obviously feels I have nothing to worry about, as it steers me faithfully away from panicked strings of questions and settles on this: _act as though nothing has changed_. It is a cruel, cruel decision, but since when was this ever an argument of right and wrong? I never wanted Roger to go in the first place, refused to accept that'd he'd left until recently, so what sweeter revenge than pretending I'd last seen him yesterday?

I stand up straight and undergo a small mood swing, from drowsy to aware, noting that although I had enough reminiscence for the both of us, Roger was sure to think I'd gone _insane_ if I failed to mention his absence.

Snorting, and still very much calm, I wash my hands make to the door to tell Joanne and Maureen of my deceitful plan.

As I reach for the doorknob, I hear activity echo from onstage. The bass and two guitars match each other's pitch and nosily clamor to a stop. The roadie tests a microphone, there's a clunking of equipment, and another voice hushes the crowd with mock earnestness.

"Uh, hey New York. How's it goin'?"

The crowd cheers and the person whispers under them, "Yeah. Yeah okay. All right. We're the Well Hungarians, how're you all doing tonight?"

More encouraged ovation, until the man at the microphone bangs on it to get them to quiet down.

My heart throws itself at my ribcage, losing all its self-control in a wave of adrenaline. I wrench the bathroom door open and stand gawkily in the doorway, frozen solid, eyes glued eagerly to the man at the microphone.

Holy _fuck_, the show is gonna start…-

"Hey kids, listen. Quit worshipping and listen up. We're real sorry but we've got some bad news-"

The crowd goes, 'Awww…' and the voice smacks the microphone again.

"Y'all know Roger, right?"

The mob screams louder and with more reverential force than for any other frontman of any other concert I've ever been to. I refrain from saying, "Yes, I know Roger…"

"Roger Davis? We're on the same page? Yeah? Oh, good. Then you've heard of him…? _Shit_. Because the bad news is, heee…couldn't quite make it tonight…"

There's a furious murmur over the audience, and several 'Wait. What?'s. The bathroom door swings shut and knocks me rudely to the back of the crowd. Since I refuse to comprehend what this man is trying to tell me, I turn around and scowl at the door instead.

"Sorry kids. He had a…previous engagement that had to be attended to. Called us last minute and dropped out. Inconsiderate, hey?"

The crowd laments.

I stare vindictively at the little man on the restroom sign.

"…But whatcha gonna do? He'll be with us in our hearts, no?"

The crowd screams in agreement.

"We can still play the greatest fucking rock show on earth without him, right?"

The crowd roars.

"_Right_? I still have the ability to melt your fucking faces off, don't I? Huh?"

I spin around slowly and shake my head. Actually, that man has no right to do any of those things.

A Fender that should be strapped to Roger detonates over the whooping mass in front of me. "We fucking love you Roger! Yeah! Isn't that right New York?! Let's make some fucking ears bleed in the holy name of Saint Roger _fucking_ Davis! Make him hear us wherever the hell he is tonight! Ready set _go_!" The drums burst in time to the Fender's whining tribute, and the long anticipated Well Hungarians reunion show kicks off, minus Saint Roger fucking Davis.

---------------------------------------------------------

Amazed, I wobble back to our seats at the bar, only to find Maureen scowling hatefully at the stage, and Joanne scowling hatefully at me.

"Where is he." We both exert- though Joanne growls through clenched teeth and I throw up my hands and laugh. Without a second glance, Joanne dismounts her barstool, hands at her sides, and marches out onto the floor, around the corner, behind a set of speakers, and out of sight.

Maureen leans backwards toward the empty stool, keeping her eyes on the stage. She murmurs out of the corner of her mouth, "Honey-" sweeping her hand at the vacant seat. She blinks and notices me.

"Mark- where's Joanne- where's _Roger_?!"

I shrug and fall onto the stool.

"I don't know." I say slowly. "Let's go home."

"N-Mark-"

"Okay?"

"No! No. Where is Joanne? WHERE THE HELL IS _ROGER_-" She throws her head around, as if this is going to help locate either of them.

"He's obviously not here. So…let's just go."

Maureen ogles at me, pissed and dejected. "We're _not_ going anywhere."

I lean forward onto my elbows, scanning the three original members of Roger's band.

I count them off in my head, closing one eye to block out the lead guitarist, and sigh shakily, "Maureen- Roger's not here. He refused to play his own reunion show because he remembered that he invited _me_-" I jab an accusatory finger at my chest and feel that irresistible, resentful hatred for Roger lick my insides.

Maureen slaps my hand away and I expect her to scold, "Nonsense!" but instead she looks at me with the constipated decline of a woman on the receiving end of an officiously bad pick-up line.

"Um…" She sputters politely, "Then why did you come?"

I am too depressed to realize this is sarcasm. "WHY THE HELL DO YOU _THINK_ I CAME?!"

A delicate-looking blonde and her grotesquely tattooed date eyeball me disapprovingly, and the bartender strides past hailing a suspicious warning.

"Because you're stupid and lonely-" Maureen tries to shove me off the stool, and rolls her eyes- which, despite her playful sarcasm- are tinged with teary disappointment. "_Fuck_ _him_," She whispers quietly, and I nod. "Fuck him." She repeats.

I stand and she grabs my hands and pulls herself up. I have the urge to hug her- I have the displaced, sinking feeling of being at a funeral. We need to console our grief-

This is fucking _stupid_.

The disapproving couple behind us scoot forward into the seats we'd just freed up- inching closer to the music. I glare at them over my shoulder, and the guy mouths, "You move it, you lose it…"

Maureen flips him off.

I tap her on the shoulder and point to the set of amps that Joanne had vanished behind. Maureen bounces on the balls of her feet and scurries off in that direction, groping for my hands behind her back, signaling for me to follow.

I nudge several fans on the outskirts of the crowd, squeezing my way along, following the trail of microphone cords like a bloodhound on a scent. I blink and we're backstage, and there's Joanne, hands on hips, conversing intensely with a roadie dressed in black.

She sees us and beckons us closer.

The roadie crosses his arms impatiently over his chest. "-Look, I'm telling you the truth," he is saying. "Davis called in maybe two, three hours prior to set up and said he wasn't feeling too well-"

A crackle of feedback upsets the conversation and Roger Davis' replacement grunts a little through the lyrics, trying to compensate for his malfunctioning instrument. Even more impatiently now, the roadie oscillates between the end of his dialogue and the stage.

"Just—" He stops, and grumbles through pursed lips at the escalating crackle of the Fender.

The guitarist steps downstage, slowing the tempo and stealthily tries to catch the roadie's eye over his shoulder.

"Just ask-" The roadie tries again, stooping down to jiggle several cords leading into the amp. His voice becomes rushed. "Just ask the club's newsletter to e-mail you the time of their next show. Or something. If you really need to see him this bad- alright?- Augh!" The feedback flares up as the singer inches backwards, and most people in the front row cringe.

"Fuckin'…" The roadie trails off, switching several cables and trying to eye up which plug leads to which instrument.

I watch him scramble frantically on the floor for a moment, reclining against the thumping black amplifier with my arms over my chest. I study the backs of the Well Hungarians' heads, a reverse portrait of each musician in action, scrutinize every cord trailing from each instrument into a neat pile at my feet.

I'd seen this same angle of every Well Hungarians show since I was seventeen years old- a nifty shortcoming of being their techie…

…Roger must've changed drastically in these fourteen years if he was hiring incapable assholes to rig up his band…

"The auxiliary cable." I say calmly, stooping beside him and jabbing a vibrantly red cord into its port on the closest amp. Then I add condescendingly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world to figure out, "Lest all else fails..." and shake my head.

The static immediately smoothes into chord progression once again, and the roadie stands, holding me in an expression of gratitude, embarrassment, and annoyance.

"Tha- I'm- You're- You're not supposed to be- back here." He grunts, and Maureen grabs my arm. The next thing I know, I am being tugged by a remorseful Joanne to the exit. The smug smile is docked from my face.

Before we stumble out onto the street, I watch the imposter at the microphone throw the roadie an appreciative grin.


	5. A Death in the Desert

There is a cramped silence on the ride home.

I bite my tongue and stare.

…I stare at the rusty little door lock under my reclining elbow; the angled crease in the vinyl seat under Maureen's thigh; the fuzzy black lumps- the corners of my glasses- looming in my periphery. …I pretend they're a form of cataracts... A tumor… Some interesting growth of brain cancer… Anything to rationalize my mood.

And my headache.

…I stare at Joanne's hands. She presses her thumbs into the sides of her kneecaps. Flexes her fingers and curls them around her knees. Lets go with one hand to scratch an itch on her forehead, and eventually just rests her hand there. As a safeguard.

Even with unfocused eyes I can see her waiting for me to say something from between her fingers.

So I stare at my lap.

Maureen takes Joanne's hand away from her face and holds it in both of hers. She begins to massage it nervously. Niether of them dare to make a sound.

I slide my tongue out from between my teeth and swallow. My entire mouth tastes like nicotine. I try opening my lips to filter in some new air, but I get that pulling sensation of a yawn rising up from my throat. So I swallow again. It's a loud swallow- the kind that tries to drag your Adam's Apple into the depths of your esophagus, but just retreats and ends up abandoning it halfway. Immediately Joanne's eyes rummage around my face for signs of emotion, or a progression from deadpan.

Just to spite her, I release the yawn.

It feels good to close my eyes. Every cell feels like it has been masked in cigarette smoke. My eyelashes are brittle and my retinas feel burned and strained and exhausted from squinting, and blinking in secondhand smoke. I want to wash my face in cold, cold water…or brush my teeth…

Or just…sleep…

My head falls against the cool glass… but I can still feel Joanne watching me, and that makes my cheek twitch. I squeeze my eyes tighter and expect tiny ashes to crumble from my eyelids.

…I suppose I should prepare a nice little fib for Patrick.

I'm sorry Patrick, I didn't get your autograph, I forgot. I'm sorry Patrick, I didn't get your autograph, I didn't have a pen. I'm sorry Patrick, I didn't get your autograph, I couldn't… I…_couldn't_ get your autograph… My head slips down the window and I jolt awake.

"…We're almost home, hun." whispers Joanne, touching my leg with gentle hesitation.

This gesture pisses me off more than anything that has happened tonight.

_I can watch for my house myself, thank you._

I slap my hand to my knee and curl my fingers into a fist and frown and mash my head against the window. Joanne clicks her tongue, offended.

Maureen rightly says nothing.

A nasty sphere of rage blazes behind my solar plexus. It tightens my chest and tenses my muscles and makes me very, very hot and uncomfortable, and at the same time just fucking _worn out_…

As we turn down a side street, the streetlights become infrequent; and every time I'm at the point of drifting off, annoying orbs fade on and off, bobbing across the inside of my eyelids. It's impossible to fall asleep with dancing little migraines mounted on lampposts… and this pain in my chest… It could just be heartburn. What the fuck ever…

Joanne is _still_ staring at me. I'll be out of this damn cab in a few more blocks, and _then_ what is she going to do with herself? Suddenly Maureen is staring at me too and I am close to stopping the cab and walking the rest of the way. 'Awaiting your orders, sire…' their eyes seem to plead.

Here is a _shining_ example of the difference between sympathy and empathy…and believe me, I know the difference. I've toasted empathy on a tabletop.

I throw in another obnoxious yawn for good measure and smile smoothly at my inquirers, "Oohh, don't you worry your little heads...I hadn't had my hopes up."

At this, Joanne recoils into the seatback. That was the response I was aiming for- not the wrecked weepy face that Maureen's stare morphs into. She shoots back with with, "-Y-yes you did!" at lightning speed- like she'd been perched on my input since we hailed the cab.

I close my eyes and struggle to find some maturity. I lean over Joanne and bring my face close to Maureen's, nearly brushing cheeks.

I shake my head and breathe out gently through my nose, "...Naw…no, I didn't. Not really." It's sarcasm, banking on nonchalance.

Joanne squirms under me and looks lost. I expect her to say something, maybe even shove me back into my seat, but she is eerily accepting of our cautious war of words. Maureen gets right back in my face, pressing her forehead to mine, her facial features blurring. She stares me down, inexorable, a 100 percent fiery _bitch_. This is the part where I'm supposed to break and grovel or something…

I do nothing of the sort.

We separate.

"You give up too easy..." She taunts.

For a second I think she is talking about our little showdown, which is silly, because neither of us are five and need not resort to staring contests to get a point across. Then it hits me that she is referring to Roger.

"…_I_ tried not to give up at _all_. Now we see that I'm left with no _choice_, _don't_ we Maureen?"

"...The roadie said that they'd- booked other shows, Mark." Joanne tries quietly. Somehow I find this extremely insulting. I don't want to be jostled awake and told where I live, and by tacking my name on the end of that statement, she's singling me out. Everyone in this taxi is at least pretending to care about Roger's return- hell, maybe even the cab driver is psyched that he's back- and yet it's Mark, Mark, Mark that's expected to track him down and tether him. I give up too easy? No… I just get _fed_ up too easy. ...I'm wrong to get excited and I'm wrong to lower my expectations.

"Okay Joanne- then I suppose we'll be there with bells on, right? Just like old times?"

It's Maureen's turn to dive across the seat. "I thought you were his _best_ _friend_!"

"_I_ _don't_ _know_ _him_ _anymore_! 'We were best friends.' It doesn't matter! It _should_! But it _doesn't_! Do you remember for a while we all thought he was _dead_? That was _fun_.-"

"You're an asshole."

"...I can't believe this."

I prop my arms between the passenger and driver seat. "Stop the car. Please, thanks."

The driver's eyes dart to the rearview for permission from the girls, but Maureen just purses her lips and holds her arms to her chest, staring intolerantly and blankly ahead. Joanne touches my elbow and tries to lure me back into the cab. I hesitate for a moment and wait for the car to slow down, and for my brain to stop screaming, "You're being _irrational_!", but there's really no winning in this situation. Or whining.

Time to go home and forget this even happened. "Thanks for the night girls. See you soon."

If I wasn't acting childishly enough to begin with, I slam the car door. For effect.

The break light blinks off in the rear window and Joanne cranes her neck to watch me as they pull away. I put my head down and start walking home before they're even out of sight.

-----------------------------------------

I wish I lived in some congested area of New York. I moved to Chelsea because of its widespread tenant population. Now that I was a 'film vampire', as Patrick put it- a third-shifter, I sought somewhere relatively quiet in daytime hours. No one's ever home here. I forget I live in the middle of a metropolis. It's nice for thinking. And sleeping.

But now, walking home close to midnight, I see that no one's ever home at night either. I wish there was even a scant amount of foot traffic. Come on, give me just _one_ passerby I can slam my shoulder into to relieve tension. Maybe even spark a fight. I'd like a little go-round. A skirmish. If I'm lucky maybe even a knifing. A mugging? I'll take anything...

But no one comes. There are no lights on in the hundreds of windows I pass, no breeze, no moon…just the distant hum of cars, the occasional ineffective blare of a horn, and the sound of my shoes scuffing the pavement.

It's annoyingly lonely.

I don't want to go home- and sit alone at my kitchen table or on my couch or in my bed, or in the shower or on the toilet or anywhere. I don't want to watch TV- there's nothing on this late, or wait for the sunrise, or lay in bed and wait to fall asleep… I don't want to stare at the clock, I don't want to stare at the phone… I don't want to hole up and beat myself senseless for solutions.

But I don't want to make myself feel better.

--

When it was just me and Roger- before Maureen, before April, before heroin or anything of vague significance, we used to think moving away would be wise. We didn't need anyone's advice…we'd forge ahead, pioneer something, disaffiliate…manipulate… We were going to live in the city as roommates and watch opportunities fall into our laps and to hell with them if they didn't. And were to be surrounded by people, the millions of people that traipse through or commute to or live in New York. It was the _people_ that were appealing to Roger. People meant connections and gigs, girlfriends, entertainment, an excuse for extroversion. He'd sit like a cat on a windowsill and watch them all with enthusiastic, flickering eyes… he'd observe them, yearn to be them, scrutinize them and work them into songs, and then turn that all around and run out and play for the wondrous population of New York City. He even went as far as to contribute to the crime rate- became a statistic, even filled himself with drugs cultured in the seedy neighborhoods of his native land. April was a local- he fell immediately in love with her. And she fell in love back because there are distinctive pheromones that pull New Yorkers together.

I imagine that's how I met Maureen.

-How I landed filming jobs.

-How I survived, and why I never moved.

I love every inch of this place but I was so busy wandering around in it and trying to capture it all on film that I never really considered my transformation into a 'New Yorker'.

Roger demoted himself from that title and slipped away. You see, sunny Santa Fe was never that appealing to me. Sure, it was warm and quiet, but so was the loft, in some months... New York got on my nerves sometimes, but it could be tolerated. When Roger left for New Mexico, not only did I think he was being unreasonable, I also thought he should've considered his options. Miles of desert and the occasional cactus wasn't going to help find Mimi, and it certainly it wasn't going to help him find _himself_. But I could've tried harder to tell him that before he wasted all that gas. In the months he was gone, I reacted much like I did now…worry, mixed with guilt, mixed with hatred, mixed with the reminder that Roger- as much as I smother him with the label of 'best friend'- likes to do things on his own. In his absence I went on the roof a lot and stared at the city and all the tiny people buzzing around in it and tried to see New York as Roger did. I noted that its people are very hard to focus on, and that could be a good hint as to why Roger left. I always wanted to be there for him. It was cliché and sappy, and I told him anyway. I told him before he was diagnosed with AIDS, as he blamed himself for everything, and as he tried and failed to focus on one person. Mimi flickered and faded before either of us could adjust the lens.

So truthfully, when he left for Santa Fe, I was scared shitless that he wasn't going to come back. I told myself to fulfill the open position of 'New Yorker', taking priority over 'best friend', or 'artist' or 'pioneer' or whatever the role was that year. 'Buzzline' helped for a while, in the sense that once I'd let Roger function without me, and immersed my time in something else, he came back.

This time I promised I'd slacken my grip on him…but it was hard, and getter harder with every passing day…and then Mimi died and everything changed for the worse. He didn't care anymore whether he stayed or went- and more specifically, whether he lived or died. He could afford ARA drugs now…things had changed, but not fast enough for the people that mattered.

...The fact that _he_ mattered to _me_ was overlooked… I was a constant, and if loyalty has a limitation, that was it. He could breeze on by and I'd be there on command, a neglected dog that still loves its master. Sympathy and empathy reinstated. I could never _truly_ know how Roger felt.

So he left.

The second time I thought maybe he'd come to his senses, but I didn't think that immediately. He'd escaped on foot. Either he wasn't planning on going anywhere very far for very long, or he'd ride out his bus ticket, cool off, and be back in a month or two.

A month or two passed. At least he'd had the courtesy to call from a payphone the first time to say he missed New York and made a mistake. Two more months passed and by then I felt it was safe to steal his car keys. Somewhere in there a few _years_ passed, and now, walking alone without anyone else on the sidewalk to rub elbows with…or focus on… I realize that without Roger, there is no New York.

It's sad how that makes sense.

---------------------------------------------

I take off my glasses and lay facedown on my bed and growl into the mattress for a bit to kill time. Time deserves to be killed. It does nothing but make me older, and it comes in cycles, so even when I'm not looking at a clock I adhere to the passing of time. I blink and it's morning, I walk to the kitchen and it's noon, I look at the clock and in ten hours I'll have to be at work.

The waste of last night doesn't depress me. What depresses me is that I'd wished it to come faster.

Getting my hopes up for Roger's show was a hard decision. I had never expected him to not show up (I'd lied to Maureen), but I was confident out of curiosity. Using hindsight, it would've been disastrous if he showed- something equivalent to a high school reunion where you discover your best friend is a prodigy while you're still living in your parent's basement smoking pot. Not an accurate metaphor, I apologize, but how do you confess to someone like Roger that you'd stopped attending Life Support meetings because everyone worth supporting was either dead or coping, and you were too preoccupied with your next paycheck to care about anyone dying that you didn't know….?

On that note- I never finished 'Today 4 U'. I know exactly which reel it is and where it's buried in my closet- I could find it with my eyes closed- but it would be too terrible a pun to parallel that film with skeletons in closets.

Aw, hell, I have ten hours before I have to be anywhere.

I make myself a cup of coffee and set up the projector.

-----------------------------------------

There is a reticent knock on my front door a few minutes into my second cup of coffee.

I wipe the tears out of my eyes with the back of my sleeve and leave the projector going as I shuffle to answer the door.

Maureen stands, deflated, on my threadbare welcome mat and grumbles "Mark, I'm sorry," before I can even open the door all the way. She looks a little thwarted that I'd actually be up at this hour- forcing her to complete the apology she'd trudged over to give in the first place. But then she notices my sorrowful smile and reddened eyes and the film spinning away on the table over my shoulder.

"Mark what're you doing?" There is little concern in her voice, probably because she still feels quick-tempered over last night's argument. She sounds more bothered that she must investigate what's wrong with me.

I look over my shoulder, like the answer to her question is gallivanting obviously behind me, then turn back around and say abstrusely, "Having a high school reunion."

There is a moment of courtesy on her face, where she waits patiently to be asked inside. All but two seconds pass before she elbows me aside and closes my door behind her.

"…Um, excuse me, did you go to my high school?" I call after her as she storms up to the projector.

"_He_ didn't go to your high school." She says triumphantly, as Angel twirls across the screen.

"I'm trying to have an inside joke with myself, do you mind?"

"Yes I do mind. Why are you watching this?"

"Well, in wake of last night's events-"

"Sorry. I figured that was why. ...Are you.. crying?"

"No. I'm allergic to the dust on this thing."

She makes a show out of digging in her purse and produces a tissue.

I take it and use it to carefully wipe the projector.

Maureen unsuccessfully hides a grin. She wrestles the tissue from my fingers, ripping it in half, and viscously dabs at my eyes with a corner.

Onscreen Angel links hands with Mimi and they begin an off key rendition of 'Auld Lang Syne' from the top of the fire escape while Roger plugs his ears with corks of champagne bottles. Maureen scurries past in her catsuit and knocks the camera off kilter. Joanne runs playfully after her and the camera is seized and centers on me, hands jammed in my pockets, bitching at someone out of the shot to please give it back.

I forget for a minute that Maureen is here too, and when I look over to acknowledge her, I find her sitting with her knees pulled under on the chair behind the projector, unblinking.

Tenderly I ask, "Say…isn't it a school day for you?"

Without taking her eyes from the screen she mumbles, "I called a sub so Jo and I could look at photo albums."

"In the wake of last night's events-"

"No. I'm allergic to children." She snaps.

I smile and pull up a chair next to her and we watch in silence until the abrupt conclusion of the documentary: a close up of Angel's face- and then the film dislodges from the pegs and goes 'fwap' 'fwap' 'fwap'! and scares us both out of our trances.

"Well!" I squeak feebly. "That's the end of that."

I clap my hands together and tuck the reel back in its box and dart away to hide it in my closet.

"Is there more?" Maureen asks when I return, shakily getting to her feet.

"Of that one? No. I never…it was never finished."

"No, Mark, are there others?"

I snort. "There's plenty!" I say haughtily, and then lower my voice. "But I never find time to watch them."

"That's…that's a shame…"

"I know."

It doesn't look like she believes me.

"I try not to watch them." I look at my shoes. "I told you last night that I waited as long as I could. I haven't forgotten any of this." I wave my hand at the projector. "I just…try not to remember."

She nods and we sit back down.

I rest my hand on the projector again. "Does it all seem surreal to you?"

"What-" She stutters. "Roger and stuff?…"

"Just- think about it. _Four_ of our friends died and none of that matters now. It was like a bad dream. Watching the film just revisits it. At least I feel somewhat normal when I don't have to think about it."

We stare at each other.

"...Is that bad?"

"If it isn't, it should be."

I nod and we run out of things to say.

We look at the floor for a while.

We muddle through a deep, meditative silence until Maureen whispers something about having to get back to Joanne.

I let her get up and walk herself to the door, not even aware that remaining sitting in the kitchen without saying goodbye is rude. The last time I didn't say goodbye to someone, they never came back.

I understand at once that this means I am not ready to revisit the past. I take it as some warning. I dread and loathe being alone in my house, _especially_ now.

"Maur- wait." I say urgently, hurrying to grab my coat. "Let me come with you."

She nods perceptively and even holds the door open for me on the way out.


	6. The Great Gatsby

At Maureen's apartment, Joanne mourns my loss of incentive to, well, mourn my loss of Roger. And she will not take any lip from me either.

"Wanna talk about what happened in the cab last night?" It's a playful jab.

"Joanne- I'm disappointed with myself, disappointed with- that… so, no, I would rather _not_ talk about it."

I glance at Maureen. The aftermath of 'Today 4 U' is clearly still grinding away at her judgment. She shoots Joanne a warning look with such inertia that even I hesitate to speak.

…I wish they would start screaming at each other so I won't have to answer to either of them. Whatever teary-eyed weakness I'd stirred up minutes earlier had been consumed against its will by the black hole in my chest.

Give me a couple seconds between prospects and I honestly could care less if Roger was breathing. What reunion show? What AIDS? What friends? What job? What _dead end_?

Consequentially, Maureen is staring at the place where my heart should be. Melodramatically, she raises her eyes to mine- a showdown with the face of opposition. My lip threatens to curl into a sneer of some kind.

"Mark- what the hell is your _problem_?!"

She has always been beautiful when she's angry…

Watching her closely, I begin to shuffle a frenzied circle around both of them. "Hah! Problem?! Ch! We're making this a _problem_? Like…a mental illness, or were you thinking along the lines of genetics…?"

Maureen dabs her mascara and Joanne stands her ground and prepares to do something rash.

I suddenly halt my orbit around them and slap a hand to my forehead.

"_Light_ bulb!"

Maureen looks cautious. I shake my index finger knowingly at her face.

"Oh…you know, I _just_ thought of something!… The _first_ time Roger ran away, _he_ was going on about my problems _too_! Now what was it he said? 'Blah blah blah, failure, lonliness, living a lie…' God, how forgetful of me! -Ah, yes! 'Detachment'! _That_ was the word. He seemed to think _that_ was my problem-"

My easygoing sarcasm is met with a stinging slap across the face from the beautiful Maureen. She knocks my glasses off kilter and seethes. I press a hand to my tingling cheek.

Does she expect me to be shocked to silence or something?

I smile. "…Kinda glad he left after that… His little lecture was hell on my self-esteem."

Joanne sags. She starts to refute, exhaustedly, "Mark we _didn't_ _say_ it was a prob-"

But I am wont to cut her off. I attack with a noisy sigh and a hyperbolic eye roll. "-_If_ it were up to me, Joanne, I wouldn't classify it as a 'problem', per se. But it's not up to me, is it? Oh no. I'll just submit like a good little boy and watch everyone else decide on my personality flaws. I feel _so damn exposed_." I cover my face and pretend to sob, and in truth, I really want to.

It's quiet for a few seconds, and the room spins, taunting me, with the accusatory Maureen as its axis. I blink and stare at Joanne instead. She's two feet ahead of Maureen, legs spread apart, snarling… Together they are a devout pair of knights, on the front lines of a Crusade for Roger. …I suppose there is humor in this... I have forgotten how imposing it can be when either of them gets offended. I don't think I can sex my way out of this one. Or tango, for that matter. Already my temper and my shame start to claw their way back into hiding. The vein in my neck gradually ceases its surge, and Joanne looks less and less like the naïve and hostile antagonist and more like…Joanne.

At length, she unballs her fists and stutters, "Well, then, Mark, what _would_ you classify it as?"

Aha. This is why Joanne is a lawyer. She possesses a rare and valuable gift called tolerance, and when mixed with the right amount of compassion, not only can she understand her clients enough to lie for them, but _believe_ in what she is bullshitting as well. I don't know if Joanne had completely forgiven me for being insensitive in the short amount of time between hostilities, but Roger really struck a nerve with me, and I was grateful for her apologetic stuttering, even if she was trying her best not to bullshit. She believed strongly enough in this friendship (and her fiancé's ex-boyfriend) to patch things up as quickly as possible and not shed excess light on the rough spots.

I respond with a solemn nod. …Let sleeping dogs lie, _please_. Joanne starts to nod in return, but no one seems to have informed Maureen of the shift in mood. Lack of insight should be a crime. That's what I always say…

"_I'll_ tell you what he'd classify it as: a defense mechanism!" She screeches. "Am I right Mark? _Cowardice_. Laziness,"

Someone arrest her.

"He doesn't want to feel…or to remember…or to _try_. And then he's gonna turn it around on us. Am I right. Yes, Mark, we all thought Roger was dead. But we didn't shit our pants and wallow in it for years and years and _years_. It's not your fucking fault- it's nobody's fucking _fault_, Mark! You think you're so…special. You're the only one with…_permission_ to _detach_. Tell me, and I mean really, take a shot and humor me with this one: What do you think _Roger_ has been doing for all this time? Hm? I'll give you a hint Marky-poo- _he_ hasn't been watching home movies."

"Gasp. …Really?"

She wants so badly to take another swing but no weapon in the world could be blunt enough to shut me up.

"I'm afraid I've lost track of your logic, Maureen. First you take pity on me, get down on Roger, turn the blame inwards, understand where I'm coming from, and now you're condemning me for it. Thanks. I really needed straight-ticket accusations. I can see why Roger is so _eager_ to come back..."

In the past few minutes it has become unusually easy to throw Roger's name around, because the argument is void of the cringing, or the awkward silences, or the repercussions. Here, 'Roger' is a mere slight that is no longer getting in the way of our true colors. Without guilt (and when I say 'guilt', I mean Roger and all his appurtenances: addiction, depression, disease, helplessness, instability, fear…) Maureen and Joanne and I could unsheathe our claws, bar none. Three healthy, normal, angry people scrambling to remember why the hell we were so angry. It was exactly this predicament that made me feel so damn invincible….and ironically, guilty.

Maureen is floundering for her own explanation- looking to Joanne for help, though Joanne appears relatively neutral- give or take a few wrinkles in her forehead- and offers her none. Again I get the impression that there's some telepathy going on between Joanne and I. She doesn't make any jeers at me, therefore we must be on the same page, right? Maureen is all on her own. She may not have been outstandingly loyal to Roger, or taken any extreme measures to track him down, but then again, she never has. At least she's not being hypocritical… The first time Roger spilt she made the necessary phone calls to keep herself out of the red, but all in all she was more concerned about keeping her relationship with Joanne intact. When April died, Maureen bought the bleach. Her trick is thinking on a much larger scale: world hunger, unjust hierarchy, civil rights for Alphabet city's homeless... considering herself philanthropic, focusing on those hot topics. In reality, fighting for such lofty causes made her a saint in her mind's eye, but drew her time and attention away from her immediate problems. This was a _different_ kind of detachment- safer, maybe, but because of this Maureen was probably the only one in the room with any common sense left.

She lunges for me, grabbing my wrist tightly and tugging me to the door.

"I can't _believe_ I felt sorry for you."

"It's bittersweet, isn't it?" I blurt, absorbed too deeply again in internal narration. Maureen shoves me out onto the stoop.

"I _miss_ Roger, Mark. And I _worry_ about him. I'm a little lost as to why he wasn't there last night, or why he left in the first place, but unlike you, I don't _hate_ _him_ for _leaving_." She starts to close the door, but I stop it with my foot and throw in the last word.

"…I don't hate him for leaving either. It's _so_ much easier to put things in perspective when he's not around."

Maureen groans and pushes hard against the door. I offer little resistance. It clumsily clicks closed and I'm left standing on the square of carpet beneath their doorway, shoulders slumped. Joanne mumbles something and I hear the deadbolt move into the locked position.

Well geez. I didn't ask to come over _anyway_…

Oh wait.

Yes I did…

I jam my hands into my pockets and walk towards the elevator, prodding the 'down' button so wistfully you'd think I was beginning my descent to hell. I listen to the creak of the pulleys and then, "…You really feel that way? God, I should've left a long time ago."

Roger's voice makes me flinch so badly I hit my head against the elevator doors. Comically, they ding and slide open, and I'm so startled and disoriented that I step inside.

Roger, bearded, graying and worn, strides up from the staircase. He beckons me back into the hallway with his eyes, and half-jokingly, half-disbelievingly asks, "Ha- you…you're not really _going_, are you?"

I am rendered immobile, dumbfounded… _afraid_, actually.

I feel stupid that Roger overheard us fighting; I mean, _holy_- that last comment was a doosy! I feel stupid that Roger was lingering in the hallway of Maureen's apartment, I feel stupid that- …_Roger_?!

…We have _got_ to stop meeting like this!

He's a ghost, literally, he looks like one- and in mind…he's _not_ really there…not _now_, not after all that… And he's wearing a business suit! -What the _hell_ is he doing back?! And a- …Roger? Roger-

_Ding_!

The elevator doors whoosh closed and I stand agape while Roger's anxious form vanishes behind the shrinking crack.

"Wh- _Mark_!" He cries, and reaches for the call button, but I'm already going down.


	7. The Merchant of Venice

-**Author's Note: **_After much deliberation, I've decided on a direction for this story. This is thanks in part to the return of Adam and Anthony to the stage. I got the chance to fly out and see them perform, and it their reunion really got me thinking in terms of Mark and Roger. As Broadway actors- as Adam Pascal and Anthony Rapp- I'm sure returning to the Nederlander was business as usual. They were friends in their absence from 'Rent', they know the ropes, and I'm sure they kept in close contact when not in costume. It's the exact opposite with the Mark and Roger in this universe. Fourteen years without as much as a phone call can really taint a reunion, and things do not go as planned…_

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My presence in this elevator seems like a dispute with fate. Whoever would've guessed that I'd be trapped in a steel box when Roger _finally _decided to come a-calling? Once the sliding doors open, I'll unleash the fury of a defensible, 14-year-long grudge. But for these peaceful fifteen seconds between floors- with Chopin's 'Mazurka in A Minor' chiming unawares over the airwaves- I feel complacently silly. Simmering here, in limbo, without enough time to think of a proper (or spiteful) greeting, but just enough time to laugh at Roger's lack of tact…and my own stupidity.

…I am stuck in an elevator.

The carriage halts, preparing to make its deposit. I try to squeeze in some meditative breathing…reduce the stressors… I feel unrehearsed, inadequately passive-aggressive… I'm speechless and floundering without a single, vengeful thought to my name. Where is that resentment I was so unwilling to harness in the cab? I am most certainly a pussy if I can't even face my best friend.

…_Ex_- best friend.

…Some guy.

Ah, whatever.

He doors glide open, revealing a dingily-carpeted hallway that is almost an exact replica of Maureen's. And although this replication of floors is typical of most apartment complexes, the only difference is that Roger is not standing indiscreetly on this one. For a second I am disappointed, and I clearly forget what I had been getting myself all worked up over. But then, to my right, comes the echo of frantic, pounding footfalls from the stairway, and frustrated, curses gasped between each landing, "Mark!…Mark!…_Goddamnit_…Mark!…"

I chuckle- a moment of temporary reprieve- and reconsider which one of us had _really _gotten worked up over this incident. Judging by Roger's neurosis- bounding down stairs two or three at a time, nearly ripping the banister from the wall, throwing himself towards the exit as not to miss me a second time- I think it is he who is in the tizzy…

I have not braced myself for the entirety of his desperation. And physically, he is _extremely _desperate. He heaves his weight at the bar on the other side of the fire door, launching fifty pounds of solid metal, as well as his flailing body, straight at my torso. I am knocked backwards, and I do my best to receive his accidental tackle, though he is considerably heavier than I am, and he had the vantage point of tumbling from an incline. I'm screwed.

Our feet tangle, our arms lock, our chests collide, and I suppose, (to be deliberately sadistic at such an ambivalent moment) in some fashion, we are hugging.

…Welcome back, Roger…

But, since the embrace wasn't intentional to begin with, we ricochet off one another at the same moment; me, squirming disgustedly backwards, elbows out in defense, pushing emotively away from the last person on this sweet earth that I want to be hugging. Roger on the other hand, is still trying in vain to rescue me from the elevator. "Pardon- sorry-!" He spits in haste, thrashing out of the pile-up. He takes three clumsy steps backwards, jogs at the elevator, which, (unoccupied and wafting pleasant concertos into the hallway) is unmistakably empty, turns on his heel, swings his fists in defeat, and comes to a standstill with his hands on his hips. He does a double-take and his eyes are on me.

…Busted!

My breath catches in my throat, and I feel like shrieking and biting my knuckles and taking off down the hallway. This is too much.

Instead, I pull myself up to my full height- a whopping two feet shorter than Roger- sticking my neck out like a bird in distress, and emanating the most vile, callous, loathsome stare I do believe I have ever given anyone.

…Well, maybe I have given it to Roger. More than once. In fact, the following sequence of events confirms this: Roger wrinkles his eyebrows, gnawing for a millisecond at the inside of his lower lip, mulling over which one of us will end up the Alpha Male in this situation.

Indeed, I _have _seen this before, and believe it or not I usually win at these face-offs. Exhibit A: Roger in rehab, inching stealthily towards the exit. Exhibit B: Mark in doorway, emitting vile, callous, loathsome stare, clad in bleach-and-blood-stained shirt that he hasn't been able to wash yet because _someone _was psychotically bereft and needed to be coddled and monitored twenty-four seven. Verdict: Roger checks in for the night.

That's right, bitch. Fear me. Crawl back into the hole you fell in. I hate you. Understand?

My lips are drawn tight- I imagine all the color has drained from them, and in contrast my ears and cheekbones are probably as red as my vision. My heart is thundering through every possible capillary, and my nerves have long since frazzled and set ablaze. It is the vestige of instinct that I have not run off crying in another direction.

The consensus was that we were behaving as we would have during any given quarrel…business as usual…piss off and be done with it. One of us advances and one of us retreats. But obviously standards have changed, and the logistics of what should happen next are out the window. If it were up to me I'd put up my little white flag, wave the hell out of it, possibly bonk Roger on the nose and flee to the elevator.

But we are now mature, grown men. I'm not even sure if mature, grown men are even allowed to use silly onomatopoeias such as 'bonk' in their everyday thoughts. I feel like an absolute Cro-Magnon seething in this manner…it feels like I've made _reverse _progress, if anything. Maybe ten years ago it was okay to pout and/or act manly until someone gave in…something tells me I'm doing this all wrong.

Exhibit A: Roger is wearing a business suit. That _totally _trumps my corduroy-pants-and-sneakers getup that makes me feel vaguely like Mr. Rogers. He is all pomp and pinstripes, and in conjunction with his close-shaven salt-and-pepper beard, polished wingtips, and stately posture, I suddenly feel like I'm fighting with my _father_. There is something so subtle and yet so palpably businesslike in Roger's stare that I think my next course of action should be not to run, but to whip out a resume' and rattle off my qualifying attributes. It scares me. I shouldn't have to prove myself to this man. But his form is so solid and he is demanding so much from simply crossing his arms, backing down, and thinking things over. Never have I seen Roger Davis exploit such a professional amount of patience. He plucks at the corner of his embroidered pocket handkerchief and lowers an eyebrow condescendingly.

Exhibit B:…It would be _so _anticlimactic if I just hacked a loogie in his eye _right now_…

My attention is ripped away from Roger's unfamiliar judiciousness…It's much easier to be childish…

Verdict: Lord, we are two _completely _different people.

We inhale.

Now is the time for questions. For words, anyway. We've proceeded past the nonverbal altercations. Now it's just awkward.

Roger, I'm sure, has been holding his tongue out of courtesy. It's very obvious that I might detonate within seconds, and he doesn't want to look like a fool when his calm, well-thought-out explanation is interrupted by a swearing, growling, loogie-hacking idiot.

The elevator takes the liberty of breaking the silence by sliding closed and departing. I look over at it- an excuse to take my eyes off Roger's somber, gray ones. I turn my head slightly, and Roger opens his mouth and scoots forward, choking, "I-" and then falling in line, nervously twisting the little gold band on his left ring finger. I squint one eye- a nervous tic- and note the contrast between that glittering band and the astute navy blue of his sport coat. I am I the only one in the world who isn't hitched to somebody?!

"You're _married_?!" I sputter. Truthfully I hadn't even planned on saying this out loud. There is just not enough balance between my sarcastic beliefs and my external attitude anymore. I swear, they're like oil and water, and by the time I'm a bitter old man I'm going to be just that- a bitter old man, slightly crazy, unctuous, pissing and moaning on my front porch, withering away without a wife or a family to give a fuck. Oh, that's a horrid thought. Anyway, back to Roger…

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

Oh, that's priceless. Genuinely Roger, I do commend him. Maybe there's a few heartstrings left to tug. Wouldn't I like to know? Why yes, I would.

"Who is she?"

"Do you really feel that way about me leaving?"

"I'm indecisive on the matter." I groan. "What the _hell _do you want?"

"Can we talk?"

"Okay! Where do you live, where have you been, what is your _problem_?!"

"I was afraid of this."

"Afraid of this'. Ha! _Fuck you_. What did you want me to do, invite you over for tea? Tell me, do you find it funny to st-"

"What do you want me to say? 'Oh God, oh God, oh God I've missed you, take me back?' …Huh?"

"No. I-"

"I didn't."

"What?"

"…I didn't miss you."

"Well I- I-…oh."

I admit I didn't know what direction this reunion would take us in…I hadn't ruled out 'Stab Mark in the heart', but I did have my fingers crossed in opposition to that particular route. I will proudly surrender. I'm almost speechless.

"…Well…that's nice to know."

"Can we talk?" He repeats, undoubtedly oblivious to the fact that _we are talking. _I know, I know, he means elsewhere, but do I honestly want to leave this hallway to smooth things over with that piece of shit? There's nothing really to smooth over anyway…he didn't miss me. Point taken.

"Heard about Collins." He says. It catches me off guard. I'm still wallowing in the pit left by his last statement. This conversation is just getting happier and happier! I don't feel inclined to talk to Roger anymore…he obviously has no use for me other than to pry information and mess with my head. What a terrible thing to do. I can't wait to get senile and forget all this. I decide to try out a little harshness myself.

"Yeah." I pause and hold it. "He stopped asking about you after a while."

"…Good." Roger nods.

_What_?!

"Maureen still lives here?" He asks.

"Yes."

"And you're not-"

"No. We- I sold the loft."

"Shame."

Weird that Roger shows more sympathy for our destitute loft than for his dead friend. I don't get it.

"Benny?"

"Is in California."

"Hm."

He frowns and looks down at his right sleeve. The cufflink has come undone, and he angrily clips it back, yanking at the hem. He jabs that hand into his pocket and stands rigidly in that manner.

The awkwardness creeps back in.

"Where is Collins?"

If Roger is even still distantly who he was when Collins was around, he should know the answer to this.

I give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Next to Angel." I say warily.

Roger makes a grunting noise of realization. "Marble- Second Avenue?"

"Yes."

"Can we go there?" I misunderstand his question as 'Is it open to the public?' I'd hardly concur that Roger cared to pay his respects. "Yeah. Go." I say quickly.

"Well I uh- will you come with me?"

"I---today?"

"Well do you have _plans_?" Roger scoffs. I am painfully offended at his tone, as if I am supposed to drop everything to accommodate Roger's arrival- which, under any other persona- my _best friend_, perhaps- I would gladly do.

Now I just wish I had plans.

"Of _course _not." I growl. I roll my eyes too, but I turn my back to him so he doesn't see.

"Ah, alright. Thank- thank you. This way you can meet my wife." He grabs my shoulder, a little worriedly, as if he'd thought was going to walk away from him.

"I have to- I work- I have to work later, so, I-"

"It shouldn't take long. I don't think." He says robotically.

"Do you mind if I take care of a few things at my apartment first? I just have to-"

"That's fine Mark. Where do you live?"

I frown. Not sure if I want to disclose this information to Roger just yet.

"…Chelsea." I say ambiguously.

"Shall we meet there in, ah- a half hour?"

"Well, uh, Maureen drove me here, I'd have to take a cab back and-"

"It's fine. I'll drive you."

"No that's not necessary, I can get-"

"No it's alright Mark, let me."

I sigh. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. I am extremely uncomfortable.

"Should we leave now?"

I bite my lip and look around for anything prompting me otherwise. No such luck.

"Yes! Ah- yes, now's fine, uh, Roger."

He nods and gestures the elevator, but I stride past the sweep of his hand and slip out onto the stairway, not even bothering to hold open the heavy fire door for him. I don't bother to walk downstairs next to him, I don't bother to match his pace toward the curb, and I don't bother to scan the street and wonder what kind of car a deadbeat, tightwad like Roger would drive. Somehow when the shiny black limo pulls up I don't even think twice.


	8. Fierce People

At the curb, Roger sidesteps his chauffer and opens my door, indicating that I get in with a smooth, 'step-into-my-office' allure. He shoos the chauffer away. Expressionless, he holds on to the door handle and stares off down the sidewalk. Suddenly I understand why Roger's been gone so long. He's turned into a _robot_…

…Jesus Christ.

"Thanks." I mumble, keeping my eyes on Roger's face as I slide into the backseat. He runs a hand along his jaw, unblinking, and then quickly shuts the door as soon I tuck my legs in. I stare up at him through the tinted window, edging a little bit to my right on the stiff leather car seat.

My hand bumps something and I turn.

I am not sure I can accurately describe how I feel over the next few seconds. Tears spring up into my eyes before I even remember to breathe. I yank my hand away and hold it defensively between my knees, groping at the air with my free hand. I claw at the lock, the ashtray, the door handle… I fumble to undo my seatbelt…I haven't even buckled my seatbelt…I cross my legs timidly and lean as far as I can toward the window, sitting on my hands.

Quietly, I exhale.

Ho-ly shit.

I turn my head ever so slowly to the seat next to me.

---She is very small. _Fragile_, I believe would be the right word.

As I silently gape at her, she shrinks to the seatback, shying as far away as possible, behaving exactly as I had. She draws her knees to her chest, and her feet vanish under the folds of her dress- white, with rows of tiny daffodils and a hem of ribbon. Her eyebrows wrinkle, uncertain, denting her flawless little face. She sticks out her lower lip, pink and quivering, on the verge of unreserved apprehension. She buries her face into the dip between her kneecaps so just her intense, emerald eyes peer out at me, unblinkingly as her father's. We do not break eye contact.

…I am paralyzed.

A peculiar fear heaves at my chest…my reflexes stop.

I am so afraid that it affects my heart rate.

…She is pale, so extraordinarily pale…little blue veins pattern her soft face, running a road map just under the surface of her skin. Color flushes the smooth skin just above her cheekbones, clearly discomfited. She blinks and tiny, almost transparently blonde eyelashes flicker over her eyelids. Her hair falls in strawberry-blonde coils around her ears. She draws breath in the tiniest voice I have ever heard.

I am terrified for her and of her.

"…Hi." I whisper.

She does not speak. She balls her little fist and rubs it across her dazzling green eyes, curling up tighter.

"I'm Mark."

I smile and take my hands out from under me. With all my might I attempt to wave, but I cannot convince my fingers to unbend themselves. I squeeze them against my palms…I pivot my wrists…but I am shaking so badly… I press them between my legs and raise my shoulders to my chin and withdraw.

She watches me decisively, still frowning.

She lowers her own rigid shoulders a fraction of an inch. "…Are you scared?" She asks, almost inaudibly. She has a lisp, mispronouncing her 'r's and 'w's.

I nod.

"Are _you _scared?"

She nods too.

"Of me?"

She nods again, but more hesitantly this time, as if this were the wrong answer.

I wring my hands. "…It's…it's okay, you know."

She looks away, out her window, scanning desperately for Roger.

He rounds the car, opening the door on her side.

"Daddy!" She whimpers, holding her small arms out. It is even more surreal to hear her confirm what I'd suspected in the first place… He gathers her to him and she wraps her arms around his neck, nuzzling her face into his collar bone. He takes the seat across from me.

I stare at them, open-mouthed, offended, pissed, amazed…

He smoothes the back of her hair and clears his throat.

"…Mark, this is Paige."

Paige. My shaking hands reach out to her, almost touching the small of her back and retreating, muscles not able to hover for too long, too enthralled, retaining every last bit of courage to keep from weeping.

She is beautiful.

I smile. But I'd rather not be smiling.

Maybe four or five years ago it would've been alright to smile, when I'd maybe heard the announcement that Roger had fathered a child-

A little girl…

Possibly I could grin and bear it at the baby shower or… in the waiting room, perhaps-

How about beaming from ear to ear as I passed around the box full of cigars in pink wrappers, clapping my hand on the back of the…proud father-

I could've celebrated. If not with Roger, then at least alone. A phone call would've done a world of good. I would've hung streamers in my apartment. …Subscribed to 'Modern Parent' just so I could feel in the loop. Come on. It wouldn't have been hard.

I am jack shit.

Years of loyalty and whatnot come whipping around the generation gap and hit me where it hurts. I feel competitive. One glimpse of Roger Davis' daughter and I lose all of my self-respect. Severe hindsight syndrome; something like that.

_I want a daughter_.

Where are these thoughts coming from? I want to rule out jealousy, but no, I am.

_Why haven't I had a daughter_?

_Why haven't I gotten married_?

I do believe I'm having either a mid-life crisis or a tantrum…

Let's pause for a self-evaluation: …To be Shakespearean, my life is in its autumn stage. Next comes the cold winter…or the golden years, depending on your cognitive appraisal. Subjectively speaking, from this point, there is no spark of hope for me. No direction from here on out. I've had my fun. Yes, I'd say my glass is half empty. Shoot me.

I'm forty. I live alone. I work. The end.

There are several things missing from my life that the average human should possess- namely, deep interpersonal relationships, an interest in society, appreciation for my accomplishments, spontaneity…

Nah.

I'm too lazy. I lost the desire to be impulsive way back when all my friends died. I thought I could make a difference. I thought turning my attention to them would matter. But now? Uh,…I _vote_…does that count as participating in society and making a difference?

I keep telling myself that I don't care what other people are doing, that I shouldn't try to measure up, but I'm failing at pretending to be unconcerned. I don't know what I should do with myself! I'm so damn… _average_!

Putting things into perspective, it made sense for Roger to run away/disappear mysteriously for years. It's fitting to his personality. Oftentimes he went stir-crazy in his own life, turning to drugs and reckless abandon to keep his mental cabin fever at bay. He muddled through it all- hell and back- and came out the other side as- _a wealthy father and husband_? What? Pieces of this puzzle are missing. _I'm _the average one. I'm _boring_. _I _was supposed to have the wife and the kids and the house- suburban Scarsdale with a mortgage under my belt and a Golden Retriever and a lawn sprinkler system…I'd join the Parent-Teacher's Association, and buy a briefcase and bring my wife bouquets of flowers after work… I am so confused! Roger ran away to like…deal cocaine or something. Right? Doesn't that make more _sense_? Where does he get off on popping out kids? I'm the loving father, damnit! Did he come back to rub this in my face?

_I don't have a daughter and Roger does…_

I watch their interactions curiously, studying Roger's receptiveness of her.

She is behaving as a typical five-year-old would: a bit standoffish, quietly whining into Roger's lapel, more so for attention than from authentic fear of the man sitting across from her. She lied to me, the little bitch. She's not scared of me. I bet I'm not the first stranger to meet with her father in the back of this limo. He's bound to convene with clients back here, bring 'em back for drinks…I'm sure she's seen daddy's co-workers…whoever they may be. She just took advantage of my own fear. Doesn't she understand that I was awe-struck? Does she not know how significant her existence is? Does she not know who her father is, or who I am in relation? What a snot. She just wanted a hug.

_I want a hug…_

…_And a daughter…_

"Paige, this is my friend Mark."

He tries turning her by the shoulders to face me, but she stiffens and will not have it. He gives up and just cuddles her, unyielding.

Grr. It's Mark's turn now…

I raise my eyebrows and put a hand to my forehead, shaking my head in disbelief. I could say something, something nice like…congratulations! …Or really I could say anything at all… but fuck that. Had I known beforehand I would've written a speech. Psh.

--Paige, _at one time_ this was my _best _friend Mark, _but I buried my demons and he was one of them.--_

That little girl that he is cradling in his arms has no idea that those same arms cradled the bodies of two dying women…both of which Roger loved and lost. This little girl knows nothing of pain, nothing of sorrow, only the embrace of her father's arms, the starchy scent of his sport coat and the back of this limousine. She is spoiled. There is no reason she should not be. Her father is obviously successful… overtly caring and yet somehow distant. Why should he reveal to her his past? The better question would be, what would she care? She doesn't need to know the Roger Davis that I'd known.

Aha.

I've got it now.

New life, new skin.

He had this little girl and got sent back to the drawing board, picking and choosing what to bring with him in this new adventure called 'Fatherhood and Responsibility'. Roll out the red carpet, Roger Davis is a changed man. A mere blueprint of his former self. I mean- it's not everyday an ex-junkie from the lower East side gets his ass carted around in a limo. But then where does that leave me? On top of the discard pile, I assume. Shed skin, a consequential remnant…a big grinning skeleton in his closet. What's up Roger! I'm here to remind you how much your life sucked!

Ouch. …Maybe I'd better get out of the car. I'm not cut out for this… but obviously I _am _wanted somehow.

He came looking for me, and here we are. But like I said, I'm not exactly grinning.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We pull away from the curb and drive for a while in total silence.

Roger is caught up in his own sick and twisted reunion plans, so he is not the first to instigate conversation.

Paige resorts to soft mewing, running the side of her cheek along her father's leg and pretending to be a kitten. She paws playfully at his shoelaces, hanging upside down off his lap, and inevitably, kills Roger's machination. Here is my first perception of Roger's parenting skills, and I am not impressed. He is more concerned about maintaining his mystery and silence. A squirming five-year-old temporarily kicking him in the face does nothing for his composure. He grabs her around the waist without even smiling, brusquely plops her down on the seat beside him, and straps her down in one fell swoop. She giggles with glee throughout the lifting-and-plopping process, but after that seatbelt holds her still, she is not a happy camper. She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him with her tongue out, sniffling.

Roger blushes a little.. had I not been paying attention I would've missed it. See, Roger shows embarrassment a little differently than most. Where I can laugh at my own humiliation, Roger just beats himself up inside for being vulnerable.

Frowning intensely, he raises a hand to his daughter.

I flinch.

Her tongue vanishes immediately. She sinks into the seat, completely noiseless. Roger snaps his glare away and goes right back to pondering, staring through me.

I have so much I want to say and ask that I do not even know where to begin. I bite my own tongue, and the car remains void of conversation.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Several minutes later, Paige whispers, "…Daddy?"

He does not answer.

Paige blinks and rests her chin on the windowsill, patient.

I sit up a few inches in my seat…in case, you know, she wanted to direct her question to me… She looks over at my attentive movement, acknowledging it by frowning and condemning me for even trying. I'm a stranger. No way do I have the authority to be answering her questions.

She sighs.

…I twiddle my thumbs.

The limo is heading due East. We pass St. Patrick's Cathedral and turn out onto Park Avenue.

Traffic thickens.

We slow and stop.

Besides the furious honking from around us, it is painfully quiet.

"…Daddy?" Paige tries again.

Roger is busy staring angrily out the opposite window, carefully avoiding either of us. He moves his jaw slightly, but continues burning a hole through the pigeons and the fenced-in sugar maple sprouting from the median on the other side of the glass.

"Dadd-"

"Yes, _what _Paige?" He snaps.

She crinkles her eyebrows and proceeds. "Where are we going?"

"To get your mother."

"And then what?"

"Wait and see."

"Am I coming?"

"Paige? What did I tell you about asking questions? Wait until we get there and you will see what happens. Alright?"

She nods.

"I said, '_alright_'?"

"…Yes Daddy…"

She puts her chin to her chest and looks over at me. I try non-verbal feedback, some kind of encouragement or reassurance, smiling and give her a discreet thumbs-up. In turn, she throws me a look of '_What the fuck dude, I just got chewed out by my dad. Why the hell are you smiling_?'

I find this extremely funny. I can't help it. I'm obviously inept here, and Roger's downright frightening. I put a hand to my mouth to keep from laughing. I think I should be speaking up…is it always this tense between them, or am I putting a strain on their loving bond? They had no problem hugging earlier… Maybe I should just leave…

"Mark-" Roger says suddenly. "Yes?" I reply almost immediately. I'm compelled to salute. He scowls at my jumpiness. "…You're awfully quiet."

_Well fuck you, you're awfully blunt._

I shrug.

"Look, Mark-" He trails off. "I know this must be…"

"Awkward?" I interject.

Again, the scowl. Well sor-ry, I didn't realize you weren't finished yet.

"…_Abrupt_." He corrects. "But I figured this would be the best way to go about seeing you again, right off the bat."

I mumble inaudibly.

"What was that?"

"Nothing. Just- never mind…"

"No really. I want to talk. I want to- what were you going to say?"

"I-" I'm utterly disappointed with the state of our friendship…my life…and your wealth and good fortune…

Good fortune?

Yeah, the HIV positive son of a bitch. How the hell have you been? Honestly. Any relapses? Immune system been treatin' ya well? T-Cells hangin' in there? I THOUGHT YOU DIED.

"…Um…so…where have you been…" I think of ending the question there, but that might take some time. So I add, "…staying?"

"You mean where do I live?"

"Relatively speaking, yes, Roger, where have you been living?"

Roger bites his lip and then proceeds to rattle off a list of residences. The first are all centrifugal of New Mexico, and he ends eventually and rather proudly with, "…and Santa Fe."

"..Oh?"

He nods. Then he breaks his intense concentration, the meditative glaze in his eyes clearing, and he leans in close to me. He opens his mouth a second, searching for words, and then says quietly, "I went back."

It is a momentous breakthrough. A reference of the past? Is he acknowledging that we share common knowledge? Indeed, Santa Fe. I remember that! Good job, Roger! Of course… I have no idea why you even went in the first place, so I'm out in no man's land again. Okay, great! You went back. "Why?"

"Business." He says obscurely. …And…we're back to where we started. Nowhere.

"…And now you're in Manhattan?"

"I've been back," he assures me, "on and off for a few years."

I do my best to look deliberately offended.

"…Itinerant salesman?" I try.

"Encyclopedias." He nods. My jaw just about drops off my face.

"…No, Mark, not _really_." He hisses, a big, stupid grin breaking across his face. He chuckles a little, which is such an incredible relief, and I laugh, and we're laughing, together.

For a moment it feels…normal.

And then his grin vanishes and he collects himself- which is his equivalent of turning back into a robot, and I'm silenced and faltering.

"…Then, um, what _do _you do…?"

His smile is back. I don't trust it. But I smile right back at him anyway, in spite of myself, because it feels so good to have Roger- real, live, actual _Roger_, sitting less than a foot away from me, and smiling, nonetheless… He's smiling-at me- and it's totally convincing. Is this where I realize I really, really missed him? I think so.

His eyes dart over to Paige, looking flummoxed on the seat next to him. "Not now." He says. And then the smile is extinguished just as quickly as it formed, again.

_Huh_? His own daughter doesn't know what he does for a living? She _can't _know, apparently. …What ever will she do for Career Day?

I exhale and take them in. I don't know what to think. I'm not entirely persuaded that I'm happy to have him back. And who said he was even back anyway? He might just unexpectedly scamper off again, lucratively peddling encyclopedias to the Southwest regions of America.

What a flake.

I'm psyched to see if Collins rolls in his grave when he gets a load of Roger. He might just come out of the ground and wring his neck.

That'd be an awesome spectacle.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I pass judgment prudently and silently. If you ask me, a Lexington Avenue condo is a shameful and ill-fitted home for Roger Davis.

We exit the car and near the house.

He watches me inspect the exterior of his apartment with provocation, but says nothing. My censure of the place is, with intent, a backhanded compliment, and I can see the guilt baring down on him with every sweep of my eyes.

He can't tell if I'm jealous or repulsed by his property.

…It's not jealousy, I promise.

He unlocks the streetside door and we mount the stairs. Paige scrambles up them, yelling, "Mom, we're home!" and disappears from sight.

Our footsteps echo off the marble staircase.

From what I can see, there are four floors, each branching off in separate directions from the main concourse in the hallway. A massive, auriferous chandelier dangles flamboyantly from five floors overhead. The walls are dazzlingly white, which may or may not add to the illusion of endlessness. It's sterile and stuffy- like a great museum.

I think I'm going to be sick.

"Well…This is where I live…" Roger urges with false modesty. He winces a bit. He can tell I'm uprooted by all this. We reach the first landing.

"Mm-hm..." I say, ogling. "A little, ah, _much _for someone who travels for a living, don't you think?"

The great and terrible sellout. I'll be direct about it, no shame. Why the hell does he need a house this big, especially since the nature of his job is peripatetic?

"Paige and I live here while he's away, but thank you for asking." Admonishes a sharp voice from near the doorway.

A woman in her late thirties strides out onto the staircase, wiping her hands vigorously in a dishtowel. Her eyes are rimmed in black, her lips painted a specious red and her chestnut-colored hair his done up, though she is wearing jeans and an apron.

She slings the dishtowel over her shoulder so it snaps in the air, buries her semi-dried hands in the front pocket of her apron, and pulls out a sealed envelope. The dampness of her fingers make an imprint on the paper.

She glares at me as she saunters past, firing such a curt and merciless simper that I retreat a bit and almost tumble backwards off the stairs.

"This came for you this morning." She says, pressing the envelope into Roger's hands.

"Hey, hey! You're getting it wet…!" He fusses, prying the thing from her grip. She flicks her fingers at it mischievously, sprinkling it with droplets.

Then she grabs the back of his neck and pulls him in for an intense and drawn out kiss. He stumbles forward and the envelope is wrinkled between their colliding torsos. He doesn't seem to mind anymore.

As they kiss, she watches me out of the corner of her eyes, intimidating me, goading me, looking me up and down, almost as if to say, "You see this? This is _mine_."

…I cannot believe the nerve of this woman! I'm not sorry she'd overheard me criticizing her home. To rattle her, I yawn and check my watch.

They separate in a flurry of breath, and her attention is back on Roger, who is tugging the creases out of the envelope. He puts one of his hands on her lower back and proclaims, "Uh, this is my wife, Christine."

She purses her lips and struts back into the house, untying her apron behind her back. "And this is Mark…?" She quips. Her question resonates over the walls and high ceilings.

Roger nods ineffectually. The woman already had a hunch, and I need no introduction.

She scurries after her into the depths of the house.

We're off to a great start.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Roger leads me into a living room- excuse me- the _parlor_- and I nestle into a leathery blob that's a hybrid of a bean bag, a piece of modern art, and a massage chair. It pulsates rambunctiously until Roger leans over and flips a hidden 'off' button. I try not to move for the next few minutes in fear of it turning back on.

Roger sits stiffly on a white textile futon. We are separated by an oval-shaped glass coffee table, and he fidgets with his envelope, alternating between setting it briefly on the coffee table, staring at it, and then swiftly yanking it off and twirling it in his hands.

The décor in this room is very crude; shades of grey, the most extreme being black and white. All photographs on the walls are obscure prints- naked women draped over piles of canvases, also in black and white. Behind Roger is a fireplace and a white limestone mantel that slopes inward. Along the shelf are (black and white) studio photographs of Paige in various outfits and settings. Above that is a guitar, mounted much like one would mount trophy buck, and clustered around it are framed headshots (autographed) of the Well Hungarians. It looks much like a shrine. I am both impressed and taken aback by the vanity of it all, and yet, I suppose things in this house have long since stopped being aberrant to me…

The area behind where I am seated is made up of doorways. The one directly to my right is the entryway to the kitchen, and whatever's happening in there smells delicious. From somewhere waaaay off in the back of the house, a grandfather clock strikes 2 pm.

Again, we're immersed in the omnipresent silence.

Roger scoots forward on the futon, getting ready to stand, just as Christine wanders out of the foyer carrying a platter with a bottle of Pinot Noir and two wine glasses. She sets it nosily on the glass tabletop, shoots me a restrained leer, flips her hair over her shoulder and exits.

I roll my eyes and pour myself a glass before Roger can even offer.

Roger checks over his shoulder and then leans forward and looks into the kitchen and beyond. He folds his hands in his lap and then beckons me over to the futon. I carefully lift my butt from the vibrating bean bag and tiptoe over to him, guzzling my entire glass in one gulp and refilling once more before locking my eyes on Roger's.

He inhales, whispering, "You wanna know what I do?"

I nod eagerly over the brim of my glass.

"Mark…I can trust you, right?"

I slowly lower it and eye him suspiciously. Can he trust me? What's that supposed to mean? …He _does _deal cocaine, I called it! If there is one person on earth Roger can trust, I _hope _he'd pick me.

"Nope, not at all."

Roger stares.

…Whoops, forgot he'd killed his sense of humor.

"What?" I sputter, annoyed. Let's get on with this.

He smiles, for a split second, and boasts, at a whisper, "Mark, I went through training…and uh, and now I work for the Criminal Investigation Department."

Wait a minute. "Hold on. …You _what_? That's like…so you're like…-_what_?"

"I'm a plainclothes officer."

Hm.

"…You're- a cop."

"I'm-"

Is it impolite to laugh? "Roger. You're.- An- _undercover _cop?"

"Yes."

Hahahaha.

"…Well hot damn."

Roger does not allow my amazement/ridicule. He grabs the champagne cork and squeezes it in his palm tensely, analyzing my reaction. I stare at my reflection in the silver platter and bite my lip. Much of what I have comprehended of Roger's new life is having a negative effect on me. I don't think I'm being fair. Hahahaha.

"…Does this mean I can go tell everybody now?"

Christine strides in at another opportune moment, carrying a wine glass for herself. She reaches across me so her sleeve dangles in my face, and plucks the bottle of champagne from the table.

She shakes her head at me skeptical, piqued… I am a disgrace to the Davis household.

"_It's not funny_." She succinctly assures me. She pours herself a half a glass of Pinot and then puts the bottle somewhere in the kitchen. I frown into my empty glass.

She reenters and flops down on Roger's left, crossing her legs and sipping daintily. "So… _Mark_, what do _you _do for a living?"

I am an unworthy blue collar wage slave proletariat piece of filth, m'am. Kindly eat my shit.

I force a saccharine smile, leaning over Roger- who I had quite forgotten about- and point to my chest. "_I _work for the Independent Film Channel-"

"Television! My oh my, Roger, you never mentioned him being a _TV personality_-"

For some reason this catches me off guard and I blush, correcting, "No, no, not- I'm not _on _TV, I'm the rough cut editor- I work like, behind-the-scenes, so to speak. I splice the film for the daily releases…like, after the editors and directors review the footage I-"

"Fascinating." Christine mumbles sarcastically. She stands and stretches and yawns, "If you're ever doing a local broadcast, _do _let us know so we can tune in…"

I am nailed with another lip-curling smirk and she exits.

...Yikes...


End file.
